


Strangling the Nightingale

by LadyMoomin



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: (kind of), Angst, Emotional Hurt, Erik Has Feelings, Erik has Issues, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Raoul is nice, Romance, Sad, Slow Burn, Victorian, but a bit boring, erik is a sad boy, like a lot of emotional hurt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 58,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23753239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMoomin/pseuds/LadyMoomin
Summary: Christine has it all. A big house, pretty dresses, a loving husband. She should be happy. She should be at peace. But something is missing. The music has gone, and the silence deafens and enslaves her. She needs to find the music again, and she knows it can only come from one person. But will she even find him, and if she does, will he really want to help her after everything?(Set post-musical. Mostly based on the musical, but with some elements from Leroux's book and also Phantom by Susan Kay, which still makes me sob. Rating is very likely to change.)Also posted on Fanfiction.net under the same name.
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Meg Giry, Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 146
Kudos: 122





	1. Gilded Cage

The noise was deafening.

It was like hearing someone howl right in her ear, butchering the sweet, gentle music Christine loved. She found it very difficult to stop herself from frowning or covering her ears, her gloved hands tight on the book she couldn’t possibly read with that racket in the background.

Raoul’s sister Camille continued to play, her voice like poison in Christine’s ears. She could almost hear her old mentor laughing.

_How dreadful_ , she imagined him chuckling.

“How delightful!” Raoul applauded along with everyone else in the room, beaming.

He had a very beautiful smile, and it did bring some comfort to Christine. At least she was safe, even if her new family had no idea what music was.

“I’ve been practising,” Camille said, a light blush brightening her face. She practically seemed to glow at the affection. “You should sing for us next, Christine.”

Christine’s heart wrenched in her chest. It was as though someone had taken it and twisted, squeezing the life out of her.

She couldn’t sing. Not anymore. She didn’t know when it had happened, but sometime between leaving Paris and marrying Raoul, she had lost her voice. It was as though all her lessons with the Ang-the Phantom had completely vanished from her mind. Her throat no longer remembered the noises to make, and her soul no longer felt music pulse through her. She couldn’t sing.

She hated it. It kept her awake at night, lying beside her sleeping husband and staring blankly at the ceiling with tears rolling down her cheeks. She would never admit this to Raoul. Never. The longer she was married to him, the more she realised how little about her he really understood. All mention of the events of the opera house were banned in the house, and even his brother held his tongue. He did not understand how Christine could even want to discuss it, but she did. Whenever she wrote to Meg, it was all she ever spoke about. Her teacher. The music. The trauma. Meg partly understood, which was more than could be said of Raoul.

_I know it must be hard_ , she’d said in her last letter. _But aren’t you happy, Christine?_

She should be. That was the hard part. Christine had everything. She had a family, even if that family was tone-deaf and disapproved of Christine entirely. She had money, and could buy any clothes she wanted, any sweets or pastries to satisfy her inner child. She had a kind, loving husband who treated her as gently as a child would treat a brand new doll. She loved Raoul. She truly did. He was her sweetheart, caring for her, trying for her. He never pressured her into anything. He listened, even if he did not always understand what she was talking about.

_But aren’t you happy, Christine?_

She should be happy.

She wasn’t.

“Christine?” Camille said.

Christine blinked. She’d been sitting there, dazed, whilst Raoul’s family stared at her.

“Oh, please excuse me,” she said. “I’m quite tired. Perhaps I could sing tomorrow?”

She had to be so careful about what she said. There was so much etiquette to learn, and Christine still didn’t know what was and wasn’t acceptable to say in respectable company.

Thankfully, Camille smiled at her warmly. “Of course, my dear! You must forgive me; I meant no offence.”

Christine smiled back. “None taken,” she assured her.

“Play another, Camille, darling,” Raoul’s other sister, Carmen, requested.

“Of course.”

Camille was already playing the next song. Christine’s ears couldn’t take another. She made her excuses, apologised to Raoul with a smile, and retired to her bedroom.

As soon as the door shut behind her, she let out a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding. Raoul’s family were good to her and tried their very best to be accepting and kind. But it just wasn’t enough. Polite society made Christine want to tear her hair out and scream. She wasn’t meant for it, and she never had been. She had grown up poor with her father, and when he died, she had been even poorer with only an opera house and a deranged murderer to act as her parents. It explained why she was the way she was now, she supposed.

_But aren’t you happy, Christine?_

She had always wanted a life like this. She’d even daydreamed about it with Raoul when they were children. How they’d grow up and marry and live in a beautiful, large house together, feeding each other little chocolates and listening to her father’s violin.

She missed those days. Simpler days, when she could just be a child and nothing more. She wanted her childhood back. Bit by bit, life ate away at it, destroying the innocent little girl inside her. She wanted to howl and laugh and scream and run down the beaches. She wanted to be happy.

_But aren’t you happy, Christine?_

_What I like best, Little Lotte said, is when I’m asleep in my bed, and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head._

Christine lay on her bed, ignoring the way the pins in her hair dug into her scalp. She stared up at the ceiling, her mind wandering.

Where was he? Where had he gone? Was he even alive?

She had to stop thinking like this. It was going to drive her completely mad, and it was already embarrassing enough for the de Chagnys for their Vicomte to marry a ballerina. The last thing they needed was the added embarrassment of the Vicomtesse being locked away in an asylum.

That’s where he should be. An asylum. Locked away forever.

No. She didn’t wish that on him. She didn’t wish him any ill. She missed his voice, missed the way he would sing her to sleep, missed the way his words could somehow caress her like lovers’ hands, promising to keep her safe.

She was safe now. She was safe, married, rich, titled. She had everything she’d ever wanted.

She missed her father, too. She wondered what advice he’d give if he were still here, watching her marrying into a family she’d never belong in.

_You must follow your heart, min älskling. Our hearts will always lead us where we are meant to be._

_But pappa_ , Christine thought in her head, _what if my heart wants something bad?_

_Then it isn’t bad_ , the ghost in her head answered. _Your heart knows where it belongs. You know, too. Why are you pretending?_

Christine closed her eyes, picturing her father’s kind smile and laughing eyes. She could almost feel his arms around her, holding her close.

_Jag älskar dig, min älskling._

_Jag saknar dig, pappa._

The sound of the door opening made Christine’s eyes flash open. She sat up like a guilty thing, gazing up into the blue eyes of her adoring husband.

“What is it?” Raoul asked. “Are you unwell?”

“No,” she said quickly. “Sorry.”

“No need.”

He crouched down before her, smiling up at her. He took one of her hands, holding it warmly between both of his.

“You should have sung. We’d all love to hear you,” he told her.

Part of her considered telling him. _I can’t sing._ But how would he react? He’d ask her why. And what would she say?

_Because I need my mentor. I need my muse._

The warmth in his gaze would disappear. He wouldn’t hold her hand as gently as he did now. He would turn cold and cruel, and she’d be even more alone than before.

So she held her tongue. _Swear to me never to tell._

“Perhaps tomorrow,” she said instead.

He smiled. “Camille has asked if you would like to go walking with her tomorrow,” he informed her, standing up so he could remove his jacket and waistcoat. “You should go. It might make you feel a little more at home here. I know you’ve been struggling. But Camille -”

“Can we go to Paris?” she interrupted.

He stopped midway through unbuttoning his waistcoat. “What? Why?”

“I miss it,” she confessed.

He frowned. She could practically see him connecting the dots in his head. He was linking her desire to go to Paris to _him_ again.

And he wouldn’t entirely be wrong, but she really did miss Paris. The busy streets. The smell of fresh bread. The people. She missed Meg so much, it had been so long since she’d last seen her.

“I want to see my friends,” she said quickly. “Meg. Madame Giry.”

“Well, why not write to them?” he asked.

“I have been,” she said.

“Then what’s the fuss? You’re still in contact.”

“I want to see them, Raoul,” she protested. “I want to see Paris. I want to…” What would make him comply? “I want to see my pappa’s grave.”

He looked at her for what felt like years, his eyes searching hers for signs of lies or her true motive. Apparently, whatever he saw there did not satisfy him enough, however, because he continued to remove his waistcoat with a dismissive shake of his head.

“I shall send for them,” he told her. “They can visit you here.”

“Raoul -” she started.

“Christine,” he said. There was a warning in his voice. “This is already a lot to ask. My family wants to spend time with us before we go home. You cannot expect me to let you run off to Paris. You have to socialise.”

“But it’s hard,” she said, and recognised the whining tone in her own voice. She sounded like a bratty child.

She thought back to a different time, when she had been a few years younger.

_But it’s hard_ , she had whined into her mirror.

_Insolent girl! Did you think it would be easy?_ The Angel of Music answered, his voice cold and disapproving. _Are you so imprudent that you would deny your Angel of Music? Perhaps I should return to Heaven after all!_

_No, no!_ She remembered feeling so distraught, so panicked. _Please. I’ll try again. I didn’t mean to upset you, Angel, please don’t leave me. I don’t want to be alone._

His voice had grown gentler, as it always did.

_Do not fret so, dear heart. You are not alone._

“Why is it hard? They’re harmless!” Raoul said now, laughing as if this was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

“I’m not made for this life, Raoul,” she said, rubbing at her eyes like a tired little girl. “I don’t belong.”

“Of course you belong! You’re my wife, Christine. I love you.”

_Christine, I love you._

“Raoul…”

He gave up undressing, sitting beside her on the bed instead. He raised her chin with his thumb, looking deep into her face.

“Enough of this, Christine,” he said sternly. “You are safe here. You belong. I shan’t hear anything more on the subject.”

She wanted to protest again, but how could she? It was clear the subject was closed. She felt so weak. She wanted to fight him, but there was nothing to fight. She wanted to flee this terrible life, but this life was perfect. Why couldn’t she just be content? Why couldn’t she just accept how wonderful things were?

“I promise you, I will write to Madame Giry tomorrow,” Raoul said softly. “Will that make you happier?”

It was all she would get from him. She nodded.

“Good. Then smile, Little Lotte.” He nudged at her chin. She forced a smile on her face. She was pretty good at it, but was that such a surprise? Her life had been the stage for so long. She knew how to smile for an audience.

An audience. When had Raoul become her audience? He was her husband. She should love and provide for him. Help him. Be a good wife. But she couldn’t. Why couldn’t she? What was missing from her?

“I love you,” Raoul said. He didn’t wait for her to answer. He leaned in and kissed her, and his mouth was too hot on hers, his hands too familiar. Her stomach churned. She shouldn’t be reacting this way. She should welcome his kisses, his touch. Instead, it made her want to cry.

Raoul realised something was wrong. He withdrew, frowning at her.

“Christine?”

“I’m sorry, Raoul,” she said, and she really was. “I’m just tired.”

He nodded at once. He was so sweet, her Raoul. He wasn’t like any other man. He wasn’t demanding or cruel; he knew where the boundaries were and when he was crossing them.

He still looked disappointed, though. That disappointment hung in the air like thick smoke.

“Perhaps tomorrow, then,” he said softly.

She leaned forward to return his kiss, but hers was chaste.

“Tomorrow,” she agreed, reaching up to stroke his hair. Once. Twice. Then she brought her hand back and stood up, away from him. “I should get ready for bed,” she said pointedly.

“Of course,” he said, already reaching for the book on his bedside table. “I’ll ring for your maid, shall I?”

“No need,” Christine said. “I’ll do it.”

His answering nod was disapproving. He wanted her to be a proper lady, to understand etiquette and wear fashionable gowns and sit fanning herself in polite company and go and become part of the audience instead of the performance.

_But aren’t you happy, Christine?_

She should be.

She wasn’t.


	2. Chapter Two: Old Pain, Fresh Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: suicidal thoughts. Quite mild, but they're there.

Erik was intimate friends with pain.

Pain had infected him his whole life, seeping into his muscles and bones. Pain had followed him through childhood, as his youthful eyes had watched his mother flinch at the sight of him, people surrounding him and screaming in horror and despair. Pain had followed him into adulthood, as he fought nail and tooth to make his mark, to turn the opera house into his playground and home. With every song composed, with every letter written, with every lesson taught, his name became more and more shrouded in myth. He was once Erik. Now he was the Opera Ghost, the Phantom of the Opera, the Angel of Music, the ghost of every crying child and every screaming adult. He carried his titles like he carried his pain, on bony shoulders that protruded from his body. 

Pain was the only lover he’d known.

Pain wrapped him up in blankets of woe, holding his bones in place. Pain whispered sweet nothings in the dead of the night. Pain was a malleable thing, an agonising friend to manipulate and transform into a weapon. He used it against himself, he used it against the patrons of the opera. He even used it against the only people who were kind to him, in the end. Sometimes, the stranger that was Erik would creep through the cracks, rearing his ugly head and staring out at the world. He watched with the eyes of a boy, but eyes that contained pain equal to thirty men. Most of the time, he carried his titles, let them overcome him. He let himself be the Phantom, the Angel, the Ghost. He let himself be whatever the world expected him to be. A monster. A beast. And with every bout of pain he experienced, the Erik who could have been was hidden by another layer.

Erik was intimate friends with pain.

It was one of the only truths in his life of myths and fairytales.

When he crawled out of his home and into the streets of Paris, it was just another trinket of pain to add to his pile. The bright light was overwhelming, and the noises deafening. He crawled out of his home and he wanted, desperately, to die. He curled up in one of the alleyways, clutching his face like the open wound it was, and waited for death to overtake him. Cold or hunger or perhaps thirst. One of the three would take him to an early grave, and he would welcome it, welcome the comforting darkness of the nothing. 

What did he have left to live for, really? Christine - _oh, Christine_ \- was gone. He’d broken her heart, and she’d broken his in turn. He had nothing left now, nothing of value. He’d lost his home, he’d lost his love, he’d lost his power and control. The layers he’d wrapped himself in had been stripped away, revealing the cowardly boy beneath. He had nothing now. His soul was cold and silent.

_Oh, Christine._

How he ached for her. The ring he’d given her was still tight in his fist. He clutched it harder, reminded of all the agony she’d left him with. He would let it take him away, all this pain. It was so familiar it was almost comforting. 

But despite how his pain spread like disease, the kinder people in his life could not accept his sad fate. 

The Girys found him curled up and shivering, and they took him home like a stray dog. They fed him, bathed him, clothed him, and he sat through it all with vacant eyes and an unresponsive body. He was in a trance for the first few weeks. He could barely move. He wanted to die too badly, wanted death to take him under his angelic wing, wanted to feel the skull-kiss against his lips.

One morning, when Madame Giry pulled him out of his bed and helped dress him, he grabbed her wrist as tightly as his weak body would allow.

“Please,” he said, his eyes staring right into hers with the first sign of clarity he’d shown in weeks. “Please just let me die.”

But she didn’t. She wouldn’t let him. Instead, she kissed his forehead like a mother would her child. It was the most affectionate she had ever been with him, and a part of him would always wonder whether he had imagined it.

“You must come back to us,” she told him. “We’re not giving up on you now.”

He wanted to ask what she meant by “us”, but the words wouldn’t leave him. It was as though he’d used all of his energy on his supplication. He slumped against her, let her help him. His mind travelled again, and his body was a useless vessel.

“Live,” he thought he heard her say. “Live, old friend.”

So against all the odds, Erik did as he always did: he lived with his pain, and let it bear down on him like a dead weight. He stayed alive. He accepted the food pushed towards him, accepted sleep as sleep instead of hoping it would turn out to be death.

Time passed. It passed and passed and passed, and slowly, ever so slowly, Erik came back to himself. He stayed in the cellar of Madame Giry’s home, making it his own space, a crude imitation of his home in the opera house. He placed down candles, making pots and sculptures in the comfort of the dark downstairs. He didn’t write music. He had no inspiration anymore, nothing to write about. His pain was just pain, and it wouldn’t translate to notes on a piano, no matter how hard he tried to force it. He would still play, of course, sitting down at the piano and making crashing, deafening noise, horrible notes that hurt his ears and satisfied his soul. Where his pain had once become music, his music now became pain. He didn’t mind. He really, truly didn’t.

He didn’t want it anymore. His music brought only suffering.

~ 

Things changed a few months (or had it been years?) after Erik’s fateful escape from the opera house. For the first time in a week or so, he emerged from the cellar like a phantom or wraith, materialising in the drawing room. He very rarely ventured upstairs, preferring the dark silence of the cellar. He was anti-social, as Meg was fond of saying. _Anti-social and rude. He could at least try to smile sometimes_ , he heard her saying once. He didn’t blame her for saying it. It was true, after all.

He caught Madame Giry and her daughter standing quite closely together, whispering to each other as though telling a secret. They evidently didn’t hear him enter the room, and he overheard a few snatches of the conversation.

“...burden,” Madame Giry hissed. “He needs time.”

“It’s not fair to hide this from him, _Maman_ ,” Meg answered, her brows knitted together in a frown.

“You don’t know him,” her mother snapped. “It will do more harm than good.”

“But it’s my letter!” Meg said. “I should be allowed -”

She stopped. Her eyes met his. 

Madame Giry followed her gaze, and both of them flinched, jumping apart like guilty thieves.

“Erik,” Madame Giry murmured. “You’re…here.”

He could forgive her surprise. He couldn’t forgive the fact that they were quite obviously talking about him beside his back.

He missed the opera house. There, he could listen in on any conversation he liked. Sometimes, he would sit and listen to Joseph Buquet tell scary tales of the infamous Opera Ghost. He found it so entertaining he often had to stifle his laughter. 

Now, he had to stand here before them, feeling like an ant beneath a magnifying glass. 

Almost automatically, he bowed. “I apologise.”

He couldn’t help feeling curious, even if the way they were looking at him made his skin itch.

“Monsieur Phantom,” Meg started. “We got -”

“Meg!” her mother said sharply.

Meg glared at her. “ _What_?”

“It does not concern him! _Écoute-moi, fille stupide_.”

Meg scowled. Her eyes were dangerous, her mouth pouting like a teenager. She reminded Erik of someone from a long time ago. It was too painful a memory, and he forced it down in his head.

The tension in the room was palpable. Madame Giry’s stern face turned away from her daughter, her dark eyes fixing on Erik. He’d never seen her smile, but she usually had a certain twinkle in her eyes. She didn’t today, which was disturbing.

They made an interesting pair, Giry and Erik. They both held a certain, intimidating air about them, an air that made most people wary and even afraid. And yet, neither was afraid of the other. They lived in almost grudging respect of one another. 

“You’re thinner,” Madame Giry commented, eyeing him with an expression of distaste. “You haven’t been eating.”

He blinked as though this truly surprised him, glancing down at himself. “Oh,” he said. “I suppose not.”

He didn't remember how long he'd been downstairs, or the last time he'd eaten anything. When he was in one of these moods, all he could focus on was music. Even when he wasn't composing - and he couldn't compose as he was, not at the moment - he was playing, singing, thumping the keys on his piano as though they'd personally wronged him. Music allowed emotion. Music allowed anger, frustration, overwhelming sadness. Music consumed him like flames, made him forget basic human needs such as sleep and food.

Come to think of it, he didn't remember when he'd last slept, either. Nightmares descended upon his sleeping mind like the plague, and he would really rather not face them.

When he looked up again, Meg was staring at him. A familiar expression. One of caution, one of curiosity and fear.

“How do you do that? Just…stop eating?” she asked in amazement. He just looked at her, and perhaps she found his burning eyes uncomfortable because she immediately looked away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean - well…”

 _I was not called the Living Corpse for nothing_ , he thought drily. He almost laughed, but somehow managed to restrain himself. Restraint was familiar to him, almost as familiar as pain.

“You need food,” Madame Giry said with a frustrated sigh. “You’ll waste away. You’re already wasting away.”

He’d been eating more than he had in his entire life, he thought, with the exception of Persia, perhaps. But he didn’t tell her this.

“Why are you up here, Erik?” she said when he didn’t answer. 

“The newspaper,” he answered, gesturing towards the table. 

She narrowed her eyes. “Waiting for a particular story?”

 _I need to know when she marries that pompous fool_ , he thought.

“No, of course not,” he said. It came out a little more sarcastic than he'd intended.

She just stared, looking right through him. She knew. He knew she knew. She knew he knew she knew.

It didn’t matter. He certainly didn’t need her permission to mope.

“Just give me the newspaper,” he demanded. “Now.”

Madame Giry just raised one severe eyebrow, her grey eyes like steel. “How odd,” she said drily. “I do not own an opera house, and yet you’re speaking to me like one of your managers.”

Perhaps Meg could sense the tension in the air, because she quickly commented: “It didn’t come today, Monsieur. It's Sunday.”

“Oh,” said Erik. He found himself bereft of words today. He hadn’t said much since leaving the opera house, and his quietness unsettled even him. “I see. Have…have they decided what to do with it?”

The opera house.

Madame Giry sighed, and it was a heavy sound, like bricks falling. “I believe they are going to close up the tunnels,” she said meaningfully.

Meg stared between them, frowning, but neither of them enlightened her. They just stared at one another, silent understanding hanging between them from an invisible noose.

His home. His home was being cut off from the world. He wished he was there, wished he could see it one last time. It had been everything to him, and he missed it so much it physically hurt. 

“This will not be permanent,” Madame Giry reassured him. 

_This_. Which _this_ was she referring to? His sadness, hollow and cold? His loneliness? These living arrangements?

Where would he go, exactly? How could he live like this?

He clenched his fists at his sides, unclenched them, clenched them, unclenched them. He was finding it difficult to breathe again.

“Please tell me when the paper comes,” he said.

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and stalked down to the cellar, immediately throwing himself before his piano and making as much terrible noise as physically possible. He wanted it so loud he couldn’t hear. He wanted it so loud he couldn’t think.

He continued like that for what felt like minutes, but in reality, hours had passed. He was interrupted by the sound of the door at the top of the stairs opening, and glanced up, removing his slender fingers from the ivory keys.

It was Meg. Naturally.

She hesitated on the stairs, eyeing him with an expression of mild panic. Her mother had known him for so long. Meg only knew him as the Phantom. Even after all this time, she still hadn’t gotten used to him as Erik, and he supposed hiding away in the basement and only speaking to her once a week didn’t really help. Still. He wasn’t here to reassure Meg Giry. She was sweet, and had always been kind to Christine, but he wasn’t going to be making friends with her any day soon.

When she continued to just stand there and stare like a startled deer, he made his voice as gentle as he could and said very softly, “You are welcome here, child. You may enter.”

His voice soothed her at once. He would be flattered, but it was expected. He’d spent his whole life trying to perfect his voice, make it beautiful and kind to contrast with his horrific face. 

She walked very slowly down the rest of the steps, standing before him and avoiding his eyes. Most people did. It wasn’t a surprise.

“First of all,” Meg said with surprising confidence, “don’t tell my mother about this.”

Now she’d caught his attention. He straightened away from the piano, tilting his head. “About what?”

Meg shifted. She seemed nervous, probably because of him.

“In the drawing room,” she said quickly, “we were discussing a letter that came today. Maman didn’t want to show you. I think you have a right to know.”

Erik’s heart was already beginning to pound in his chest.

 _Give it here_ , he wanted to hiss.

He restrained himself, instead giving her a cool look-over.

“Oh? How intriguing.”

She sighed, rubbing at her arm.

“I…I know why you’ve been wanting the newspaper, Monsieur,” she said, and somehow, her voice held even more anxiety than before. “And I understand, too. I’d feel the same way. I’d want to know. I…” She stopped, as if realising she was saying too much. He watched her with narrowed eyes, eyes she still couldn’t meet. “Just…here.” She practically threw a letter at him, clearly too afraid to actually touch him. It almost made him want to roll his eyes or laugh, but he managed to stop himself. It really wouldn’t do to upset his saviour’s daughter. And she really was a sweet girl. She didn’t deserve his mockery.

“I’ll be upstairs,” Meg said, “if you need to talk.”

He frowned, watching her as she turned and scurried back upstairs. _If you need to talk_. What would he possibly need to talk about?

He looked back at the letter. It was addressed to Meg (why was she giving it to him, then?) and written in a messy, unpractised script. He took a deep breath and began reading.

__

_Dearest Meg,_

__

_This will be the first letter I ever write as a married woman. Can you believe it? I can’t. It feels like some kind of dream._

_Raoul and I are visiting family this week, and then we will go to our estate. Our estate. Can you believe it, Meg? I have an estate now. Imagine what my pappa would think!_

__

_I miss you terribly. I hate that we are so far away from home, but hopefully I will be able to see you again very soon. Our estate is in Rouen. I’m going to give you the address so we can continue writing, and really, Meg, you simply must visit. If you don’t, I shall never forgive you!_

__

__

_Raoul’s family is really very accepting, but I do miss home. I'm still struggling - I cannot get used to this strange new life of mine. I just want to be back on the stage. They all expect so much from me, as if normal people know which fork to use for which meal, or which dress to wear to which gala. How can I keep up with these pretences? I don't know the slightest thing about any of this. I'm afraid they may think I'm some sort of fraud! At present, writing to you is the only thing keeping me sane. I hope I’ll feel better when we go to Rouen. Perhaps being with Raoul and Raoul alone will calm my nerves - I just haven’t the faintest idea how to act in high society. I'll learn. I'll learn. I must learn._

__

__

_Meg, I miss you! I can’t stop thinking about it. I’m going mad. I wish I could speak to you in person. It feels so unnatural to write after all the years we’ve spent together. I hate it, Meg. I wish I could just see you. Please consider coming to Rouen - I’ll write you when I get there, and you must, must, must come._

__

__

_Please reply as soon as you possibly can._

__

__

_Your ever-loving,_

_  
_

_~~Christine Daaè~~_ _Christine, Vicomtesse de Chagny_ _(It feels so strange writing that!)_

__

__

Erik read the letter three times. It felt like someone had taken his heart and crushed it between their hands, right in front of him. He ran his fingers over the name at the bottom. _Christine Daaè_. It was wrong, so wrong. It was cruel, so cruel.

He took a deep breath. In, out, in out. He remembered saying goodbye, remembered the way she'd looked at him as she left to be with Raoul. He remembered how much it had hurt, a fresh wave of pain overcoming him. It was sometimes so overwhelming. This letter didn't help.

But he appreciated it. He appreciated knowing. He had spent every day wondering - when would they marry? It felt like the very end, like the last bit of hope had been taken from him. But it was closure. Perhaps he needed that closure so that he could let go of her. He'd been hoping it would be easier than this, easier to think _she's gone, Erik, she's gone and she's his now_. It wasn't. God, he didn't think he'd ever be able to let her go. Not fully. She held his heart in her hands even now, and with every moment that passed, with every day he spent apart from her, it lost another beat. She was killing him. He was killing him.

He missed her so much. 

He didn’t realise he was crying until the ink began to run on the page. He let out a hiss that was more like a moan of pain, removing his mask and rubbing at his eyes beneath. The ragged flesh beneath his hands still disgusted him.

_This haunted face holds no horror for me now. It's in your soul that the true distortion lies._

_Oh, Christine._

It was all true, wasn't it? Beneath the heavy hammers of a life in chains, Erik's soul had become twisted and cruel. It was no surprise she wanted to escape. He deserved it, all of it, he knew that now. She deserved a world of light, of day. She deserved Raoul, no matter how shallow his infatuation may be. She deserved to be happy. He would bring her only misery. He should be happy for her, proud of her. But he couldn't be. He just couldn't.

It hurt. It hurt so much. He wanted to throw himself into the river. 

_Let me go_ , he imagined her whispering. _Please. Please let me go._

He raised the letter to his lips and gently kissed her name. It tasted of salty tears.

_Christine, Christine._

_Christine, Vicomtesse de Chagny._

Erik was intimate friends with pain.

But this wasn’t pain anymore. This was pure, unadulterated agony, and it bit through his skin right down into his bones.

He should be used to this. He should know how it felt.

But every wave of agony was new, fresh, overwhelming.

He didn’t make any more music. He just sat there at his piano, clutching the letter. He wept on it until the letters were unidentifiable, and then he wept some more.

 _I’ll be upstairs if you need to talk_ , Meg had said.

But how could he? What would he even say? It was too much, all too much. It was like a dagger in the chest and ten more in the back. He could barely breathe, couldn’t think. She was not only missing from him, but so was his soul. She'd taken a part of it with her. He didn't want it back. It belonged to her now. Perhaps he'd never let her go, but he could find peace in the pain, in the goodbyes said and promises unspoken.

Pain was the only lover he’d known.

And evidently, it was the only lover he’d ever know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! This chapter's slightly different because of the different perspective. I hope that's not too off-putting. Or disappointing. Erik is the hardest character to get right, so please let me know what you think of the characterisation. I've tried to write him a little differently, mostly because he isn't really himself at the moment and this is mainly the introduction from his perspective. Aaaaand I'm rambling.
> 
> Thank you for commenting and giving kudos, I appreciate it so much. It makes me smile, so thank you all x


	3. Chapter Three: Garish Light of Day

How strange it was, Christine thought, that her life could somehow be both busy and boring.

In the opera house, every day had been different. They could rehearse the same play with the same cast and the same complaints from Madame Giry and her cane, but somehow, every day was still different. Some days, Carlotta might forget her lines. Most days, she forgot how to sing. Other days, the mistakes were out of their hands, with falling sets and drunken stagehands. It was a poor life, of course, with very little rewards for the chorus or ballet rats, but it was an exciting life, too.

Once, Carlotta tripped over her skirts and fell face-first on the stage mid-performance. That time, Christine had been the only one to hear the disembodied laughter, as if it was the funniest thing in the world. Instinct had told her to look up at Box Five, and she caught the slightest swish of a cape. It was the sort of story that she could share with the other girls so they could all shriek and giggle nervously. She didn’t, though. Even before she knew who the laughter belonged to, the fact that only she had heard it made it feel personal, as if he had laughed purely for her benefit. She liked that. She liked his laugh, rare and cruel as it was.

She missed it. She missed him.

She would never admit this to anyone, of course. Even Meg didn’t need to hear it.

Instead, she kept it where she kept all her memories of him: locked away in her heart, honoured only in the rose perfume she’d taken to wearing.

Even exciting events were boring. She and Raoul would be leaving for Rouen tomorrow, and so they dined like royalty with his family. The table was full of delicious meats and beautiful bread. The wine was expensive and tasted like the berries Christine and Raoul used to feed each other as children. Christine had bought a new gown whilst shopping with Camille, and it was a lovely, light shade of blue, embroidered with soft pink flowers. Everything was perfect. And yet, there was a feeling deep in her chest, the feeling of discomfort. It was perfect, but it was perfect for someone else. She didn’t belong here. She didn’t belong here. She didn’t - 

“Christine?”

She looked up from her wine glass, staring across the table at Camille, who was smiling almost as widely as Raoul. Everyone was looking at her expectantly. Oh. Camille had asked a question, and Christine, trapped in her habit of overthinking, hadn’t heard it.

_They must hate me_ , she thought. _I’d hate me._

“Oh, er…” _Just say yes_. “Yes.”

Camille’s smile grew slightly pitying. “Yes?”

Christine frowned. “Er…yes?”

“Where _do_ you go?” Camille asked. “When your mind travels, where does it go?”

Christine would have answered, but something told her it was a rhetorical question. Instead, she smiled back, hoping she wasn’t blushing too hard, and murmured, “Please excuse me.”

“That’s quite all right,” said Camille. She was so warm, so kind. Was everyone in this family like this? Why couldn’t Raoul’s sisters be cruel and unwelcoming? At least it would give her an excuse to hate it here. “We were just asking about your time on the stage. What was it like?”

“Oh! Well. It was…nice,” said Christine.

What else did they want from her? She didn’t know what answer was acceptable. Was it even polite to discuss opera houses and dancers at the dinner table? She knew for a fact that Raoul’s brother Phillippe was a man of many dalliances with the dancers. In fact, he’d even tried flirting with Meg once, which had made Meg cackle until tears rolled down her cheeks.

_With me? He’d have better luck with Joseph Buquet!_

Absently, Christine smiled at the memory.

“I had lots of friends there,” Christine said. “There’s no feeling like it, being on stage.”

“It must be terrifying, singing in front of so many people,” said Camille, shuddering.

“It…has its own rewards,” Christine said carefully.

Like a masked genius devoting himself to her, to making her song take flight. She wondered whether he had ever sat to dine like this, whether he had answered poking, prodding questions or whether he had just rolled his eyes and ignored them. She wondered what he would say, what he would do. How would he behave with others? She had only ever seen him interact with her. And Raoul, of course, but the less said about that, the better.

The eyes continued to stare, and Christine bowed her head. She was used to eyes on her. Her whole life, there had been eyes on her. She’d sung alongside her father’s violin, and then she’d danced before enormous audiences. She’d sung before them, carrying her mentor’s soul in hers, and she had been under so many lights, so many pairs of so many eyes. She was used to people watching her.

Why, then, did it feel so unnatural and uncomfortable now?

“You have a pretty voice,” Philippe drawled from the very end of the table, drinking deeply from his cup. “We went to see you. It must have worked, because pretty Raoul certainly _thought of you_.” He laughed as if this were actually amusing.

Christine glanced wildly at Raoul, but he didn’t seem too bothered. He was busy drinking and laughing, his eyes often finding hers and twinkling. If they weren’t surrounded by people, she would lean into him, seeking physical comfort. She wanted someone to wrap their arms around her and hold her close, tell her she was all right.

“I hear your teacher was quite mad,” said Philippe.

It was like a slap in the face. Her blood went cold. What was she supposed to do? What was she supposed to say? She wished she could hide away, flee from all the questions and demands. Her head was throbbing, her heartbeat unsteady.

Perhaps he sensed her pain, because now Raoul looked up. “Philippe," he said, sighing. "That’s enough. There is no need to make my wife uncomfortable, thank you.”

"Ah, it's all in good fun!" Philippe answered, laughing.

" _Philippe_."

A strange look passed between them. Christine felt rather like an intruder, witnessing a silent conversation. It seemed almost private.

Whatever was silently said seemed to work, because Philippe finally shrugged. "Very well, very well. My apologies, Madame."

She chose not to point out the sarcasm in his tone.

The air was awkward now. Christine had never felt so uncomfortable, but at least the eyes were off her for now as the conversation turned to something far less tempestuous: their move to Rouen.

She couldn’t pay any attention to the discussion. Her mind was far away, in a boat on a vast, glassy lake. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. No matter what she did, he was always at the back of her mind. Sometimes, she could swear she heard him singing to her, or playing his organ, or simply laughing. He would laugh, she thought, if he saw her now.

_You rejected an eternity of music and beautiful night for this? Oh, Christine. Ever the child._

_I hear your teacher was quite mad._

Was he mad? Was it madness she saw in his eyes? 

But they were so clear. So pained. So loving.

_Christine, I love you._

“Christine?” Raoul’s voice was far closer now. When she came back to reality, she saw that he’d moved his chair just a little closer. She could smell wine on him. He was drunk and merry, his cheeks ruddy and his eyes laughing. “Are you all right?”

He always asked her. _Are you all right?_ It didn’t matter if she looked happy or sad, distant or present. He would always ask it, always checking. Perhaps he was just as insecure as her Angel, deep down. Or perhaps he was just worried. She had been very distant lately, after all.

“Of course,” she said with a gentle, dreamy smile. “I was just thinking about…” About what? What could she say? _I was just thinking that maybe I made a mistake marrying you._ “My father,” she said instead. 

“He was a good man,” he said, nodding. He spoke, bizarrely, as if this was the first time they'd had this conversation; as if he'd only recently discovered Gustave Daaé was dead. “I was very sorry to hear of his death.”

“Yes. Me too.” If he noticed the dryness of her tone, he didn’t show it.

“I think I met him once!” Camille said, evidently listening in. “He was so very kind. And his violin: _c'était magnifique_!”

Christine put that smile on her face again: her performance smile. “Yes. He was a good man.”

Camille didn’t quite lean over the table, but she did reach to pat Christine’s hand gently. Her face was so genuine, her eyes so warm, it made Christine want to scream and run and cry and throw her arms around her all at once.

“It is hard, losing your parent,” Camille said. “Were you very young?”

“Ten,” answered Christine. “Mamma died when I was six.”

“A difficult childhood,” Camille said, nodding. “How lucky you are, to have a new family now.”

She meant it completely sincerely, but it made Christine sigh. _How lucky you are_. Yes, she was lucky. She wished people would stop reminding her. But perhaps she needed the reminder. Perhaps she should stop being so childish and accept that this was a good life, one she had chosen. She had to stop thinking about her past like this. _I miss my mamma, I miss my pappa, I miss my Angel of Music._

_But I was never really here, dear child_ , she imagined the Angel saying. _There was only a monster behind a mask._

_I hear he was quite mad._

After a while, they moved to the drawing-room. There was a strange air in the room, the kind of air that lingers just before a storm. It was the last night Christine and Raoul would be here, and somehow, this brought a mild tension to the room. Or maybe that was just Christine. _Stop overthinking_ , she thought. It didn't work. She continued to overthink, because what else could she do?

The men drank whiskey and played cards and the women sat fanning themselves and looking pretty. It was the part of the evening that Christine had been dreading, but fortunately, everyone seemed to have forgotten her promise to sing. Instead, Raoul joined his brother and his sisters’ husbands and the women sat reading. Except Camille, of course, who immediately rushed to the piano. She wasn’t too bad at it, all things considered, and she did seem to enjoy it.

Tonight, Christine made a silent vow to appreciate the music and stop mocking it in her head. 

Still. It was difficult to appreciate mediocre music when Christine had heard the music of a genius. She wished he were here to listen. She wished she could hear him laugh. She wished she had kept the ring.

Of course, her promise was not forgotten for long. After a few songs, Camille cheerfully said, “Ah, Christine! You should sing that song from the opera tonight.”

Christine swallowed. “Which song?”

“You know. The one Philippe was talking about.”

Philippe glanced over at them. The glint in his eye was cruel, knowing, threatening. He knew exactly why all this made her nervous. He knew she didn't belong here, and he delighted in expressing this disapproval.

“Ah, yes," Philippe said coolly. " _Think of Me_. I should like to hear it, too.”

“Come, come, don’t be shy,” Camille said. “We all know you have a beautiful voice.”

_It isn’t about that_ , Christine thought, panicked. _It’s about the song choice. I don’t want to, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t._

She thought back to the first time, when she’d first been told to sing in Carlotta’s place.

_I don’t want to do it. I’m not good enough, she’d said in her dressing room, wringing her hands and staring around her._

She had felt his presence surrounding her, sending delightful little shivers down her spine.

_You’re ready. And you are going to make your Angel of Music very proud indeed._

She wished she could feel him now.

“Christine?” Raoul said. “Are you all right?”

_Insolent boy! Ignorant fool!_ The Angel’s voice came, unbidden, to her mind. _Come, Christine. Sing. Sing for **me**._

“Very well,” she said, standing up. “I’ll sing.”

Camille beamed. She moved away from the piano, letting Carmen, who actually knew _Think of Me_ , take her place.

Christine took her place beside the piano, standing as straight-backed as she possibly could.

_Your posture is a disgrace_ , the Angel had said when he first started teaching her. _No wonder you find singing so difficult. Your body is an instrument when you sing. You must remember this, and keep it tuned._

She remembered this now, trying to stand as straight as she could and taking deep breaths.

_Sing from the gut, not the chest._

_I don’t understand!_

_Ah, ah. No tears. You’re better than that, dear, sweet girl. Deep breaths. Come, come. Yes, that’s better. And now, again: come, sing for me._

She barely registered everyone around her. Her soul was travelling far away, back to Paris, where the voice of her Angel caressed and guided her.

Carmen began to play, and Christine prepared to sing.

But when the first few notes came out of her mouth, they weren’t right. They sounded awful, cruel noise blasting in her ears. She sounded like she’d sounded all those years ago when she first arrived at the opera house. She was a rusty hinge, a dog’s howl, the unheard wailing of babes. Her voice had lost all its soul.

_Why? Why can’t I sing?_

She knew exactly why. It was for the same reason she hadn't been able to sing after her father's death. The feeling of missing someone took the soul out of her voice. And where was it now, her soul? Where had it gone? She knew. She knew. She knew.

She sang the whole song, her heart failing, her soul weaker than ever before. By the time it had ended, she was just about ready to cry. Raoul’s family stared at her in thinly veiled shock. It was fortunate they knew nothing about music, because they would faint if they realised just how far she had fallen.

Instead, they all smiled at her.

“How pretty,” Camille said.

“You’re almost as good as Camille!” Carmen said. It was intended as a compliment, but Christine didn’t feel very complimented at all. Camille sounded like a dying cat. Christine sounded worse.

She gave them a weak smile, returning to her seat and picking up a book to hide her burning face. Her eyes stung. She was sick, absolutely _sick_ of feeling the intense need to cry. 

What would her old mentor say if he were here?

_How dreadful_ , he’d laugh.

~

In the bedroom, Christine stood at the window, staring out at the beautiful French countryside. She wanted to go home. She was reminded, cruelly, of her father’s death, when she’d been taken away to the opera house.

_I want to go home_ , she’d sobbed into her pillow. 

It had been Meg, of course, who had comforted her. Meg had crawled into bed with her, holding her tight as if they were sisters.

_It’s all right, Christine. It’s all right._

She hardly noticed Raoul enter the room, so wrapped up was she in her own painful thoughts. 

“What happened to your voice?” Raoul asked, the drink making him blunt.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly.

_I know. I need my teacher back._

He stood behind her, wrapping his arms very gently around her waist and resting his head on her shoulder. It was an intimate pose, the kind reserved only for husbands, and yet, it felt so wrong, too close, too much.

“It’s just the country air, that’s all,” he reassured her. “It will be better in Rouen. You need the city, don’t you?”

Yes. She’d lived her whole life in cities. Paris, Gothenburg. It felt odd to be here, so far away and cut off from everything. She missed Paris so much. It was like a deep ache in her chest, a caged beast desperate to be released.

“Ah, I forgot to tell you,” Raoul said suddenly, interrupting her sad silence. “I wrote to Madame Giry.”

She shrugged him off so she could turn around and face him, her eyes almost wild with hope.

“Will she come?” she asked, her heart racing. _Please say yes. Please. I want her and Meg here. I need them here._

“I’m sorry, Christine, it’s bad news,” Raoul said with a sigh. “She is preoccupied. She said she had serious business to attend to.”

Her heart sank. “Business? What business?”

“She didn’t say. I assume it’s something to do with that dratted opera house. I wonder whether they’ll close it.”

“No,” she said at once. Her voice was harsher than she’d intended, but she couldn’t help it. The very idea that they would close it, destroy it, harm it in any way, made her feel sick. It was like a person, a character in its own right. _His_ music was there. His home.

“Well, whyever not?” Raoul asked. “Don’t tell me you still feel a connection to that horrific place.” He shuddered. “I’ve had enough of it to last a lifetime.”

“You weren’t raised there,” she said bluntly. “That horrific place is my _home_.”

He stared at her. He was like a wounded puppy, and guilt, horrible and familiar, clenched around her body like a vice.

“It _was_ your home,” he corrected. “Your home now is in Rouen.”

She turned away from him, wiping a tear away from her eye. No. She wouldn't cry. She wasn’t a weak little girl. She was a woman. Not even just a woman: a Vicomtesse. She would deal with it as she’d dealt with all of her pain before. She would carry this pain like a knight's favour. _His_ favour.

“Christine,” Raoul said, and there was a question in his tone. He didn’t understand. How could he? He didn’t understand. Caged birds hadn't the spirit to sing. “Everything will be easier when we leave tomorrow. I promise. We’ll be happy there. At peace. We can start a family, have some children.”

_Deep breaths. Deep breaths._

She had to try. She had to. This was a woman’s job. She had chosen Raoul, and now she was here. Happy. She had to be happy.

She was just upset because of her voice, that was all. She was just upset because of failing to sing for her new family. Reassurance. That was all she needed. Just a bit of reassurance, some comfort. 

“Raoul,” she said, turning to face him. “Tell me you love me?”

“You don’t need me to tell you,” he said, smiling. 

Like every night for the past few weeks, he turned away from her and began to undress. She looked back at the window, her heart pale. Usually, when she heard his reassurances, felt his love, she felt like she was on top of the world, watching the people from Heaven. Tonight, it sounded strange and wrong. She just wanted…what did she want?

_Make your mind up, Christine. So indecisive, always so indecisive._

She loved Raoul. She truly did. She wanted his soft gazes, kind smiles, gentle touches. She wanted him and she had him.

So why did it feel so…empty?

_Because a part of you is missing_ , her Angel’s voice came back to her head. _A part of you is a part of me._

_How can that be?_ she wished she could answer. _I don’t even know if you’re alive!_

She’d left him weeping on the ground, at the mercy of a murderous mob. There were never any newspapers here, not that Christine could see. It wasn’t that Raoul was keeping them from her; it was more that he didn’t read them himself, and if Philippe did (it was his house, after all), he didn’t make the information public. Christine very rarely left the house unless it was with Camille, and she’d never seen any headlines to do with the strange events of the opera house.

What if they had uncovered a body? What if the body had been his? What if the reason she felt so strange and out of place wasn’t just because it was all new and uncomfortable, but because somehow, she could sense his death? The world already felt strange without his presence. It would feel completely empty if he was dead.

Now that the thought was planted in her head, she couldn’t get it out. She couldn’t stop the feeling of dread turning her heart to black ice. She had to know. She had to.

“Raoul?”

She didn’t know what it was. Perhaps it was the wine. Perhaps it was her tiredness. Perhaps it was the ache deep within her, the loneliness she couldn’t explain. But something made her brave enough to ask him.

“Did they ever find his body?”

Raoul froze. It didn’t matter that she didn’t specify who. He knew. He wasn’t a fool, even if he was naive. He turned to face her, and his expression was completely unreadable.

“Why?” he asked. His voice was cold.

“I just…it would bring me…closure.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Closure. Closure like marrying me? Closure like leaving Paris?”

“Please, Raoul. I just want to know.” I need to know. She tried to make her eyes as wide as possible, tried to make herself look pleading and sad. Perhaps it was manipulative, but she hardly had it in her to care. She felt tired, so tired, all the time. She needed the truth and she needed it now.

He searched her face. It was so frightfully familiar to when she’d asked if they could return to Paris.

Still. He’d also been drinking, and drink seemed to make him softer, less on guard. 

This time, whatever he saw in her face seemed to satisfy him.

“They didn’t find it. Or if they did, they didn’t report it.”

_It_. It was as though he really had become a ghost, vanishing into the air and leaving traces of himself only in Christine’s memory.

But he was alive. He must be alive. If he were dead, there would be a body, and there was no body. Could it really be? Could he really be out there? But where would he go? Where could he possibly be? The opera house had been everything to him. Without it, what was he? Just a man.

Just a man.

“Thank you,” said Christine. "For telling me." She paused. How could she sweeten this? “It’s only so I can start our new life tomorrow without having to think of him again,” she said.

She hoped she’d worded it right. Perhaps she had, because he smiled, and even if that smile was cautious, it was a smile all the same.

“I don’t want to think about him either,” he said seriously. “Come, let us drop the subject. We have better things to think about.” His smile grew a little coy. “Come to bed.”

~

In the dead of the night, as her husband slept soundly, Christine climbed out of bed and went to the writing desk. 

She wrote a very short letter. 

_Our mutual friend is missing._ _I presume you know where he is._ _Tell me._

_Yours, Christine Daaé._

She put it in an envelope, wrote the name and address, and hid it in the travelling cloak her maid had set out for tomorrow.

She crawled back into bed, satisfied. She would send it tomorrow with a letter for Meg so that Raoul wouldn’t get suspicious. And then she’d get the answers she’d need, and she could finally feel whole again.

Raoul sighed, pulling her towards him in the bed.

“Stop moving around,” he grumbled into her shoulder.

“Sorry,” she whispered back, but he’d already gone back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is slightly repetitive but I promise things are going to get moving from here on out.
> 
> Let me know what you think, and thank you again for all your support, it means so much to me <3


	4. Chapter Four: Phantom Applause

It was a small comfort, standing outside, feeling the rays of moonlight gently caress him. It was a clear night, a calm night, and the stars seemed to wink at him, a silent song he felt resonate deep within him. Night felt safe. Night had always felt safe to the man with the face of the Devil. 

Madame Giry had asked him several times to stay in the house. 

_You’re a wanted man. A murderer, Erik. They’ll hang you for what you have done, and you know that as well as I do._

He had agreed. Quiet agreements. He would stay there. He would hide away in her cellar, he would beg at her table like a dog hoping for scraps. 

For the most part, he really had stayed in the house, locking himself in, barricading himself to save himself from the outside world as he always had done. He accepted all of her requests, and if she acted too much like a protective, patronising mother, he didn’t question it, didn’t bring it up. It wasn’t really out of any respect for her, though of course he did respect her, did appreciate how difficult it had been to save him after everything he’d done, after he’d finally, finally lost his mind. He was just too tired. Always tired, always sleepless. Christine’s rejection had left him stranded in a purgatory of pain, cutting through his skin like knives. He couldn’t get out of it, this strange state of nothing. He couldn’t find any reason to be alive, couldn’t find any reason to compose or draw or do anything other than sit, stare, think. 

It had changed because of the letter. 

It had brought him great agony to read it, and for several days afterwards, he had just sat at his piano, deliberately making every note terrible and grating to punish himself for daring to allow himself to be any more vulnerable than he had to be. But then he’d woken from his sad haze. 

And now, somehow, he felt almost rejuvenated. 

So for the past few nights, he had donned his cloak and hat and he’d left the house, stalking the midnight Parisian streets like a real phantom. 

He was seen only once. 

It was a short, portly man, with a nervous disposition and a ridiculous feathered hat that made Erik only slightly jealous. It was Erik’s fault, really. He had been too cocky, too bold, walking right in the centre of the streets without sparing a single thought for the people who might recognise the odd sight of a man in a mask and connect him to the ghost haunting the Opera House. 

The man had seen him, and from the way his eyes popped, it was obvious he recognised Erik at once. 

He sputtered and sputtered like a man choking, and Erik just watched him impassively. 

“It’s all right,” Erik said soothingly, his voice giving none of his sarcastic amusement away. “Take your time.” 

“You’re not real!” the man finally spat out. And again, “You’re not real!” 

“You’re right,” said Erik in a sing-song voice. “You’re dreaming.” 

The man looked like he was going to scream, but then blinked. Confusion rolled off him in waves. He glanced wildly over his shoulder. “Wait…what?” He looked back at Erik. “How are you doing that?” 

Erik tilted his head. “Doing what, Monsieur?” 

He stared at him. Then flinched. “That!” he cried. “It sounds like…” 

“Like what, Monsieur?” 

“It sounds like…like singing…” 

Erik was slightly out of practice, but throwing his voice was almost too easy. Easy, and entertaining. In fact, he was extremely tempted to just stay there, watching the familiar, confused wonder overtake this poor man. But he could almost feel Madame Giry’s disapproval from the house, and he grudgingly decided not to push his luck. He’d best be off. It would be morning soon, and the sunlight would chase Erik back to the dull cellar. 

So, whilst the man was distracted, Erik backed away into the shadow, striding so confidently past him, it was almost arrogant. 

That night, Erik had a purpose. 

The streets were far quieter closer to the opera house, which didn’t surprise him. For the first few weeks, he’d been told, people from all over Paris tried to visit, morbidly curious about the Phantom of the Opera and the horrors he caused. There were even rumours that he really was a ghost, and if one visited at a certain time, they would somehow be able to see him. As if ghosts had a schedule, and only appeared at a certain time every night. The very thought simultaneously made him laugh and roll his eyes. Eventually, however, people lost interest. There was no mystery left. The Phantom was gone, and the people could only be turned away so many times before they gave up their pursuit of the ghost and those who claimed to know him. 

Erik was almost disappointed. It would be quite amusing to see all those people crowding around his old home, searching for him. Of course, his survival instincts didn’t find the idea amusing at all. 

He sighed now, staring up at the magnificent building. It was amazing to him that it was still standing at all. It had been closed to the public for quite a while. No managers wished to take such a cursed building into their hands, and so people like Madame Giry and Meg were temporarily out of work. The last Erik had heard, they were planning to reopen it soon. It was the entire reason they were sealing the tunnels that led to his home. Tying up loose ends, avoiding the return of the Phantom of the Opera. 

He didn’t enter from the front; he was miserable, but he wasn’t stupid. Erik had helped build this opera house. The house on the lake beneath had been designed to keep him hidden and safe from the world. He had added a few other secret entrances, just to be sure, and he was glad now that he had. 

There was something surreal, something unearthly, about walking through the opera house in the dead of night. It was cold and empty, the walls so silent, even Erik’s breathing sounded too loud for his ears. How ironic, that the Phantom himself was now the only being to walk through these halls. He’d lost the game, and yet this was a victory in itself. With Madame Giry and Meg, he was powerless. With Christine and Raoul, even, he was powerless. 

But here? This was his domain. This was the Underworld, and he Hades. He would continue to command this building until the day that he died, and after that, he was determined that he should continue his haunting in a more literal fashion. 

He stood on the stage and stared out at the empty chairs of an empty, ghostly audience. It felt so eerie. He was overcome with an emotion he couldn’t quite understand, couldn’t quite identify. God, just to stand here! On the stage! It felt like he was breaking some unspoken rule, and at the same time, it felt like he was supposed to be here, that this was where he belonged. He did not belong to the world of day, the world of people, but this empty stage? Yes. He belonged here. He felt energies so overwhelming, he could have wept. It was as though the spirits of the past could see him, leaning forward to touch, to comfort. He would kiss the ghosts tonight. He would kiss them with his voice, the Devil’s voice, too beautiful for humanity, perfect for here. 

Almost against his will, he found himself singing. It was a soft song, a gentle song, so far removed from his usual crashing music that it was almost someone else’s. It came to him almost unnaturally, as though a real spirit had possessed him. He was host to so many sad souls, so many silent, desperate angels abandoned by God over and over again. 

He let it take him under, sweeping him away like a tidal wave, let the music breathe through him. 

If he closed his eyes, he could imagine an audience watching in awed, rapt attention. How delighted they were, how amazed! They wanted his music. They wanted him. How strange it felt to be wanted, how unfamiliar but so comfortable, like it was always meant to be. He’d like to die here. He was desperate to die here. And as his voice dropped on the very last note of his song, he felt tears fall, unchecked, down his face. 

How long did he stand there, overwhelmed by the silent applause, the invisible smiles? It could have been mere moments; it could have been hours. When he came back to himself, wiping the tears from his eyes, he felt wearier, older, than he had done for a long time. And yet, somehow, he also felt so young. He was a child crawling home, and an old man ready to leave the world behind. It was too much. For all his years, for all his experiences, Erik still didn’t know how to process emotion properly. It ruled him with a steady whip-hand, but he didn’t understand the orders. What did he feel? Sad, happy, angry, frustrated? No. No; now, he just felt pained. 

He had been planning to travel down to the underground, to see whether the tunnels had been sealed yet, to see whether he could find any more of his things to salvage. He wasn’t ready to admit that he was searching for memories of Christine, things to savour when he missed her most. Not even to himself.

Now, however, he found that the very idea of going down to the lake beneath the opera house made him nauseous. He didn’t want to go down there. Revulsion possessed him, whispering at him to leave, to flee. Caught irresistibility in his music like a fly in a spider’s web, Erik had forgotten how many painful memories were here.

He couldn’t stop replaying those last moments in his head, over and over again like the monkey’s cymbals on his most prized possession: his music box.

_I gave you my mind blindly._

_Blindly…_

He shook his head silently, as though answering an unspoken question. He felt his eyes beginning to sting again. He couldn’t stop crying lately. It was as though sadness was eating him alive, and finally, finally, he was letting it take over. He didn’t transform it into anger or jealousy or murderous rage. He just let sadness be sadness.

It was worse. But he deserved that. He deserved the worst.

He was suddenly desperate to escape the oppressive walls of the opera house. He needed to leave. He needed to leave now.

 _Stay_ , the ghosts seemed to whisper, clinging to his clothes. _Stay with us. Sing to us some more. Why won’t you sing?_

He flinched as if he could really feel it. _God, I’m going mad!_ He was frightened, actually frightened. He felt himself cowering like a child would, repulsed by this horrid, rancid place.

His instincts were screaming at him to go, to leave. He listened.

He turned and half-ran towards the door, his cloak swishing dramatically behind him. And he didn’t care if it was cowardly, didn’t care at all. He just needed to leave, or else the memories of his angel would eat him alive like maggots eating dead flesh.

~

Erik couldn’t say he was surprised to see Madame Giry very much awake when he returned to the house. He could say he was surprised, however, to see her leaning over the fireplace, burning a tiny piece of parchment. There were very few words on it, but even from this distance, Erik could tell it was a letter of some kind. 

“What is that?” he asked, like a child seeking to satisfy his curiosity. 

Madame Giry didn’t seem very surprised to hear him. In fact, she didn’t even turn to look at him. 

“That is no concern of yours,” she said calmly. 

The paper burned to a crisp before their very eyes. Erik was half-tempted to rush towards the fire and snatch it off the flames, his instincts telling him _that’s important you need to see it that’s important_. Something held him in place, however, an unseen force keeping him frozen, towering above her. 

She stood up, turning to face him. She was in her nightgown, her hair loosely plaited instead of pulled into the severe bun she usually wore. It was very uncivil, but then, when Erik glanced at the grandfather clock to find that it was past three in the morning, he could hardly blame her for her state of undress. 

Even undignified as she was, she still gave off an energy that demanded respect. She held herself tall, straight-backed, and glared at him as though they were having a normal afternoon conversation. 

“Where did you go on your nice little excursion?” she demanded icily. 

He shrugged. “That is no concern of yours,” he said, eyes glinting with a warning she was all too familiar with. 

“Oh? No concern of mine, is it? Unless the police come to my door and decide to see myself and my daughter hang for helping you. That, I believe, would be a concern of mine.” 

The air between them was like a cage, bars closing around Erik so quickly, he was rather certain he was going to throw himself onto the floor and scream. Instead, by some miracle, he managed to take a deep breath and stay calm. 

“The police will not be coming to your door, I can assure you, Madame,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. For some reason, he again felt the sudden urge to cry come over him. _God! Perhaps Christine was right. Perhaps I really am the most pitiful creature in existence._

“I have asked you,” Madame Giry said very sternly, “not to leave this house. I have asked you not to endanger yourself because it endangers all three of us. I have saved you, and in return, I have asked only to be respected as a human being instead of treated like a fool.” 

He opened his mouth to speak, but immediately, she snapped, “No! I am speaking!” 

Erik stared at her, slack-jawed. He had never, not _once_ , allowed anyone to speak to him in that manner. And yet here he stood, shocked into submission, so silent she may as well have stolen his tongue. 

“I have never asked for anything,” she said in quiet anger. Somehow, it was worse. “Instead, I have done everything in my power to help you. I have helped you scheme against the managers of your petty playground. I have defended you against those who would see you dead. I have defended your right to live, I have defended your music, your abilities, your genius. After everything that happened, I should have let you die in the street as any other sensible person would. Instead, I went to find you, and I dragged you out of your ridiculous self-made pit of blackness and death and brought you here, against every single one of my instincts, because I couldn’t bear to see you die after everything. I have saved you time and time again, putting myself and my daughter at risk. And what have I asked for? I have asked for your respect. And where is it, Erik? Where is my respect? You live under my roof, though you may as well be dead for all you act like the living. You may not care enough to save your own life, but mine? Meg’s? How can you risk us like this? Is your obsession with victimhood so great that you would allow others to become victims of your lifelong self-pity?” 

He just stared at her. He may as well have been a worm, and she a bird, ready to eat him alive. What could he say? He was being scolded. Scolded, like he was a child and she his mother. 

Ha! His _mother_! _His_ mother! 

“We saved you from death and you act as if you’re already dead,” she said quietly. “All I ask is that you stay in the house. Not for your sake. For mine. For Meg’s. But this is impossible for you, no? You would rather everyone around you died than hang up your pride and let go of your childish power.” 

“I wouldn’t -” he began. 

But she interrupted him. “She’s _gone_ , Erik.” 

He flinched. And there it came again, a fresh wave of pain, a hideous reminder of everything that had happened, everything that had been, everything that never was. He was going to crumble beneath the weight of it. It didn’t matter if he wanted to die; it didn’t matter if he tried. It was going to kill him regardless. He was going to die of pain. 

“You need to let go,” she said, and this time her voice was softer, kinder. 

But he didn’t care. Because the pain was too much. It was unbearable. _When will it let me go? When will **I** let it go?_

“And what then?” he shot at her, eyes flaring. Anyone else would be afraid, but Madame Giry just looked at him. “I crawl back to your cellar and compose? I beg at your table like a dog and thank you for the scraps? What then? There is no point to it all! None at all! None!” 

He didn’t realise he was shouting until he stopped. His breathing was heavy, his body aching. He felt like his bones were splintering in his body, betraying him. The floor seemed to be pulling at him, and it took all his willpower not to fall to his knees. 

“My whole life has been the same thing in different places,” he said quietly, weakly. “All I have ever wanted…all I have ever needed…it was all in Christine. You could never understand. Letting her go was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. If you really think I can just…” 

He was so tired. He didn’t have the energy to be angry anymore. For all his willpower, he couldn’t remain standing without help. He clutched at the wall with one hand, clutched at his chest with the other. The heartache pulsed within him, taunting him. 

“I’m trying,” he said heavily. “I’m really trying.” 

Perhaps something in him had cracked. Perhaps he’d finally lost his mind. Perhaps he’d lost it as soon as he heard Christine’s voice. 

“Are you?” Madame Giry asked. It was a simple question, but the connotations sat heavily on his shoulders. “Are you really?” 

He closed his eyes, just for a moment, and saw Christine standing before him. 

_Don’t place your soul on me like this_ , she said. _Don’t make a god out of me. It isn’t fair. You’re better than that._

He wasn’t. How horrible, to know she deserved so much more and still wanting to drag her back to him, using her as an anchor, as a moral compass. He had spent his whole life hurting, and yet wasn’t making her a martyr hurting her? He was giving her his pain. How was it fair? He was used to carrying it. She wasn’t. And yet, he wanted her to have it all. How sad. How pitiful. How disgusting and wretched and vile. 

“I need…I must…” 

Before she could say another word, he stumbled away from her, half-falling downstairs into the sweet embrace of the darkness. 

In his wake, she just stood there. She looked back to the fire, where the letter had now been entirely consumed by the flames. 

She sighed, and down in the cellar, Erik heard it. 

He shut the door, didn’t lock it. And he stumbled, not to his piano, but to his bed, where he collapsed and curled up like a frightened child. 

He _was_ a frightened child. But he didn’t know what he was afraid of. Not Madame Giry; not even himself. 

_Christine._

He retrieved the letter she’d written to Meg from under his pillow. He’d kept it there ever since Meg had given it to him, desperate for the comfort and pain of his angel’s writing. 

He read it again now, then clutched it tightly to his chest. He tried to imagine her arms around him, rocking him gently. 

_I’m here, Angel. It’s all right. You’re safe now._

But his imagination wouldn’t listen. For the first time, he couldn’t even imagine her here with him. She felt so far away, so distant, so missing. 

Gone. 

“No,” he gasped out loud. “She isn’t gone. She isn’t. She isn’t!” 

He forced his eyes to see the words on the page, forced his mind to take in the words that were already branded into his head. 

_This will be the first letter I ever write as a married woman._

Even that delicious torture was better than nothing. 

_Our estate is in Rouen. I’m going to give you the address so we can continue writing._

He wished _he_ could write to her. He wished _she_ could write to _him_. He wished he could see just a few of her words, just for him, so he could whisper them to himself like a prayer. 

_I’m going to give you the address._

_I’m going to give you the address._

_I’m going to give you the address._

It was as if a sudden realisation had dawned on him. As though someone had shaken him awake from a horrible dream, whispered into his ear, _Pay attention, Erik!_

_I’m going to give you the address._

He turned his eyes upwards, imagining the bedroom that lay above that ceiling. 

His Christine was going to give Meg her address. 

_No, don’t_ , his conscience immediately piped up. _Don’t. You promised you’d let her go. You promised!_

No. It was out of the question. Unspeakable. Ridiculous. 

And yet… 

_I’m going mad._

That’s what Christine’s letter said. 

_I'm still struggling - I cannot get used to this strange new life of mine._

_I’m going mad._

Oh. 

No. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. Unspeakable; ridiculous. 

He stood up, leaving his bed to go and trail his fingers along the keys on his piano. He pressed very gently, the sound satisfying a deep urge within him: the urge to create. 

_I’m really trying._

_Are you? Are you really?_

Yes, he was trying. He really was. 

He sat down at the piano, playing an old tune, but it was idle, his mind racing and distant. 

He could. He shouldn’t. 

He could. He shouldn’t. 

_Stop thinking about it._

No. Those days were over. He had to let her go. Letting her go was the biggest challenge of his life, and yet he had to do it. She was happy. She was happy with Raoul. She was happily married with her own estate. She was _happy_. 

But no matter what he did, a tiny voice at the back of his mind persisted: 

_But what if she’s not? What if she needs you?_

No. She didn’t need him. No one needed an angel in hell. It was all over. 

_It doesn’t have to be._

Yes it did. It was over. 

_She’s giving Meg her address._

His mind continued to tick away like a clock. He turned the newly realised information over and over in his head. Hours passed and he continued to play through the early hours of the morning, thinking, thinking. _I won't act on it_ , he told himself. _I'm just thinking._ And so he continued to _just think_ , indulging in forbidden possibilities, tending to them like secrets. He didn't sleep, but when did he? He lost himself in the tick-tocking of his brain, not noticing the way his whole body drooped in exhaustion. 

If Madame Giry was surprised to see him sitting at the table with Meg that day, she hid it well. And if he noticed the suspicious way she looked at him throughout the supper he actually attended, he didn’t comment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Erik. I hope the location change isn't too jarring. 
> 
> Let me know what you think, and as always, thank you for reading!


	5. Chapter Five: Eyes

_That night, Christine dreamt of him._

_In the dream, she stood beside a strange, crooked tree on a hill overlooking the beautiful world that was Paris. The moon smiled down at her, the eerie arms of night time holding her as closely as a lover would. Just being here, feeling his presence all around her, made her heart stop in her chest, made her breathing become shallow and bated. It was the most magical of feelings, the oddest desires all realised and expressed. In this world of night, she could confess to all her darkest fears and feelings. All her responsibilities, all her titles, were stripped away from her like shed skin. She was not Christine de Chagny. She was not Christine Daaé. She was not even the Angel of Music’s student. She was simply Christine, no longer overtaken by the wishes of her father, her husband, her teacher._

_The Angel himself sat very calmly beneath the sweeping branches of the tree, staring out at the city as though he, too, was caught up in the beautiful nightmare that was the darkness. He looked as he did in her memory. Tall, well-dressed, his mask such a familiar sight it may as well have been his real face. And there was that sense of power around him, power that held the ability to control and seduce. She felt dizzy with it, overcome by it. She stood above him, but he was above her, always there, always watching._

_It had once frightened her._

_Now it brought the first semblance of peace she’d had since she left him in his crude underground home._

_“There you are,” she breathed, her whole soul overcome by great relief._

_“Here I am,” he agreed and oh, she’d forgotten how alarmingly heavenly his voice was, how alluring. “I’ve been waiting for you, Christine.”_

_How strange it was to be here. She felt half-mad with longing, and yet, she hardly knew what she longed for. She was half-child, half-woman, half wishing to bow down to him and submit, half wishing to know him in another way, a way she could hardly bear to admit even to herself._

_“You’re late,” he added. He spoke half as the stern Angel of Music and half as the Phantom she had come to know. “I don’t tolerate lateness.”_

_The words were stern and yet, the way he said them…it was almost lazy. His voice drawled, the words adding nothing to the meaning, only serving the rhythm of his voice. He didn’t sing, and yet every syllable spoken was part of his song, a song she wanted so desperately to be a part of._

_Instead, she simply sat beside him, her legs weak beneath her, and stared up at him. He still wasn’t looking at her, and from this side of him, all she could see was his mask._

_“Take that off,” she said._

_But he ignored her like she hadn’t spoken at all. “Music comes first, Christine, always. If you cannot release all earthly pleasures, you will never come to know the music as I do. Do you understand?”_

_No, she didn’t understand. She didn’t understand at all. Why was he speaking so strangely, as if they were having a lesson?_

_Because he was a dream. He wasn’t real._

_“I miss you,” she told him._

_“Yes,” he answered, as if this was a satisfactory statement. “It is to be expected.”_

_“It is?”_

_“Of course. You let the music in, let it overtake and become you, and then you allowed it to be stripped away. Oh, Christine.”_

_He finally turned his head to face her, and the look in his eyes: that was familiar. The pain there. The adoration. The immortal desperation._

_“Why did you let it go?” he asked, and the question was spoken so softly, she had to lean in to hear it._

_“Forgive me,” she murmured. “I didn’t realise…I didn’t realise…”_

_She didn’t realise she was crying, but she must have been, because he reached out with a careful, gentle hand and wiped the tears from her cheeks. His touch was a ghost’s touch, barely there at all. It was too much. It was not enough. She leaned into his hand, wishing this dream version of him would forget his real-life fears of physical contact and just hold her._

_“Hush, my darling,” he said quietly. “You couldn’t have known.”_

_“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I’m so sorry!”_

_“Silly girl,” he said, tapping her cheek fondly. “I will hear no apologies. You took the safer route. I admire it. I condone it.”_

_His touch disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, and his eyes once more turned to Paris._

_“I miss you,” she said again. “I need you with me.”_

_“No,” he said dreamily. “You don’t.”_

_“I do,” she insisted. “I can’t sing anymore.”_

_“You have no need to. The music is over now."_

_“You know that’s not true. You would die without your music.”_

_He tilted his head, considering this. Then he said, “You and I are very different people. The music is all I have. You have a life - a life that has just begun.”_

_“I don’t want it,” she complained, not caring that she sounded like a whining child. “I would give it up, all of it, if I could be with you.”_

_He was a dream; she could be as bold as she liked._

_But even in the dream, he dismissed her with a gesture of his hand. Beautiful hands, sensual hands. Hands which brushed her off as if she were little more than a fly._

_“Christine. Do not be foolish. Look at you.” He reached out as if to touch her again, but stopped before he could. “You are blessed with beauty. You are blessed with a home, a title, a husband.” He paused, and even his dream-self winced. “A family of your own. You are accepted by the world; you are accepted by daylight.”_

_“But I don’t want it!” she said again. She wanted to shake him, but even in the dream, she wasn’t brave enough to grab him in such a fashion. “I want the night. I want the music.”_

_But he just shook his head, smiling a smile so sad, it made her want to sob. “Christine,” he said, his voice velvet-soft. “You are an adult, not a child. It’s time to stop believing in ghosts.” He looked off into the distance, somehow so beautiful despite the disfigurement that lay behind his mask. “Something is coming,” he said. “Can you feel it in the air? Something is coming.” He sighed, and it was like an angel’s weeping. “Perhaps Death is finally coming to take me.”_

_“No,” she said. “You can’t die. I need to find you. I need you.”_

_But he spoke as if he hadn’t even heard her protest. “Wake now, Christine. Wake now and face the life you’ve chosen.”_

_“Wait!” she cried, but it was no use. The world began to collapse around her. The dream was disappearing, taking him with it. Now she found her bravery, snatching at the lapels of his jacket, clutching him. “Please, Angel!”_

_“Dear girl, you know by now,” he said with another smile. “Angels aren’t real.”_

_And just like that, the dream was gone, and day time came back to haunt her._

~ 

Christine didn't wake up weeping as she often did. She just stared at the top of the canopy bed she shared with Raoul, her eyes glassy and blank. She had been dreaming of her old tutor so much lately. In some of the dreams, he would chastise her for dwelling on the past. In others, he would be angry, the very essence of rage, coming towards her with eyes of yellow fire. Sometimes, her dreams would just be memories: memories of their lessons together, memories of her time in his world of night, memories of her standing above him, watching him tearfully mimic the little monkey on his music box. It wasn't enough to dream of him, but it was something. It didn't fill that hole within her, but it did help her accept her new life. Sometimes, she even believed that.

 _Stop dwelling, Christine_ , she thought with an audible sigh.

She didn’t want to go back to sleep. She didn’t want to face what she didn’t have - it was too much. She had accepted her longing, but her dreams of him just seemed to feed it, driving her mad with regret.

No. Instead, she would use this time to write another letter to Meg. Meg hadn’t been replying as of late, and so Christine’s letters were becoming more and more frequent. Christine wasn’t enormously concerned; Meg was forgetful and often convinced herself she’d already written in reply. But there was a strange feeling of dread in the pit of Christine’s stomach, the feeling that something was about to happen.

She couldn’t explain it. Her life here in Rouen was wonderful thus far, even if it did all seem to blend together, but there was something wrong. It wasn’t even the strange, empty longing she felt for her Angel. No, not even that. It was more instinct, her gut telling her something bad was on the horizon. 

She got out of bed, very careful not to wake Raoul, and pulled her nightgown tight around her. She crossed the room to her writing desk as she had done most mornings since they'd arrived in Rouen. Today, however, she was slightly distracted by the open curtains. She could have sworn the maidservant had closed them last night, but perhaps she'd forgotten. Christine did love the giant bedroom, loved the space and the freeness of it, but she hated how large the windows were. It allowed the whole world to see in. Something about that made her unbelievably uncomfortable, and she wasn't really sure why. She was leaning up to close them when she noticed a strange sight.

There was a man standing outside their gates. This wouldn't seem so strange if he wasn't staring right up at her through the window. Their eyes met.

He tipped his hat, raising a hand to give her a little wave.

She frowned. He didn’t _look_ nefarious, but something about him made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Her instincts were telling her she should take note of this, that she should remember this. Something in her gut told her that this man intended to do harm. She turned around to stare at her husband, who was still half-asleep.

“Raoul?” she called.

He groaned, the sound muffled by his pillow. “What?”

“There’s a man outside,” she said.

He sighed. “Tell Louis.” Their steward. “Why are you even awake? Come back to bed. It’s still dark outside, for heaven’s sake.”

Despite herself, she managed a small smile of amusement. Raoul was not a morning person. It was quite sweet, really, seeing him so grumpy.

“I can’t tell Louis,” she said. “I’m not dressed.” 

"Why are you standing at the window if you're not dressed?"

"I thought the curtains - oh, it doesn't matter! Raoul, please come and see. He’s really staring; it’s making me nervous.”

Raoul sighed. He clearly wasn’t happy about being bothered, but he got out of bed all the same, rubbing at his eyes. He joined her at the window, peering out, and to her absolute horror said, “There’s nobody there, Christine.”

For a moment, she was concerned she’d started seeing things. But when she looked out of the window again, she found he was right. The man who had tipped his hat had vanished.

“What?” she murmured. Had that man really come to stand outside just so he could stare at their estate? The bad feeling in her gut grew, blossoming like a bloodstain.

“He was probably just taking a walk,” Raoul reassured her. He leaned down, kissing her forehead. “Come on. You’re obviously tired. To bed with you, woman.”

He said it playfully, but she couldn’t even manage a smile. Something about that man sent shivers down her spine.

“Christine?” Raoul questioned, already climbing back into bed.

“One moment,” she said distractedly.

She continued to stare out of the window, not caring about her indecency, but the man didn't appear again. Still, Christine couldn't bring herself to go back to bed. She could hardly be expected to just go to sleep after that. Gone though he may be, that man had set her nerves alight, and besides, what if he returned? What did he want? She must have stood there for a good half an hour, because by the time she turned around again, Raoul was snoring, lying spread-eagled with his golden hair splayed out around him.

Instead of waking him up again by climbing into bed, she forced herself to calm down by sitting at her desk, writing every frustration in her letter to Meg.

_Dearest Meg,_

_I apologise for sending so many letters, but I really need to talk to you. I’m finding everything so difficult at the moment. I feel so trapped, Meg, so much more trapped than I did with Raoul’s family!_

_I find that it’s all a bit overwhelming. I still feel a bit out of my element here. I can’t stop thinking about the past. I miss Paris terribly, and I miss you even more. I’m afraid Raoul and I will get bored of each other - is that awful of me? I just haven’t spent enough time with him alone, not since we were children. And now I come here and we have our whole future waiting between these walls and I just feel a terrible pressure, as if I’m supposed to be more than I am. I feel as though something truly awful is about to happen. Some people look at the stars, don’t they, for answers? I can’t recall what it’s called. Divine something? I wonder what my stars would say now. I wonder whether that’s what I’m feeling: the future, about to happen._

_I don’t think I’m ready for this, any of this. I feel so dreadful for feeling this way - how cruel of me, to give up so quickly - but I just don’t know how else to feel. I hope you come to visit soon. Raoul tells me you and your mother are a little busy at the moment, but I hope whatever it is that is keeping you busy allows you a few days to come and visit. I would feel far better if I had you here to show you around. And then we could talk in person instead of this wretched letter-writing. Oh, Meg. Please reply as soon as you can. You haven’t written to me in so long now, and I’m starting to get worried._

_Have I upset you?_ _Please, please, please write soon!_

_Your friend,_

_Christine de Chagny._

They had been in Rouen for several days now, and Christine was beginning to get used to feeling like an imposter, a thief of another woman’s happy ending. She learned to fake smiles, learned to fake satisfaction. Only Meg knew her true feelings, and even that was debatable. Christine wasn’t even sure Meg had got her letters in the first place. Writing to her was beginning to be akin to writing to a ghost.

In fact, Christine hadn’t got _that_ letter, either. She had received no reply to her letter inquiring after the Phantom. There was nothing at all, not even an acknowledgement. She waited anxiously, tapping on everything she could get her hands on, spending obsessive amounts of time in the music room as though trying to summon him to her, but nothing came of it. There was only a heavy, nagging disappointment deep within her. What if it hadn’t been received? What if no one wanted to help her? What if she really would never see him again?

She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Was something happening to her letters? Why had none of them been answered?

She chose to take the letter to Meg to the post office herself that morning. Part of her wondered whether, if she delivered it herself, it would be more inclined to get to its destination. Perhaps Meg hadn’t replied because she hadn’t received any of her letters. Well, she’d go then, and she’d pay extra to ensure it reached her. And if the post office wouldn’t open for a few hours, she would wait outside until it did. 

So she dressed in clothing sensible for walking and left the estate and her sleeping husband in deathly silence.

She kept her eyes open for the watching man, but he was nowhere to be found. Good God, was she really going mad? Perhaps she’d imagined him after all.

Somehow, she just knew that wasn’t true.

As she closed the gates of the estate behind her, she looked up at it, sighing softly. 

The estate was beautiful. It had shocked her so immensely when she’d first got here, so much so that she had just stood there for several minutes, craning her neck and gazing at it. It towered above them, the pointed roof sweeping the skyline. It almost reminded her of the Paris opera house with its grand windows and gold-crested door. The gates before it were tall and iron, but still somehow welcoming, opening to reveal a little path leading straight to the front door, past the beautiful garden with its quaint ponds and shaped hedges.

She had felt so small when she first saw it. She was reminded, irresistibility, of her arrival to the opera house, with Madame Giry holding her hand and trying to comfort her as she wept.

Ten years old and so alone. 

“It’s so big,” Christine had said miserably.

“It only looks that way now,” Madame Giry had reassured her kindly. “Once you learn all the nooks and crannies, it will feel far smaller. I promise.”

“Do you bring lots of children here?” Christine had asked, slightly perturbed by this possibility.

Madame Giry had just chuckled. “ _Non, ma chère enfant_. Only one, a long time ago now, and I highly doubt you’ll see _him_!”

For the first few years, all Christine had was Madame Giry and her queer little daughter. Meg had been delighted to have a new friend, and despite Christine’s unpopularity among the other ballet rats, Meg had fiercely protected her.

And then, as she aged a little more, then came the voice, the beautiful, angelic voice that comforted her like no one else ever could. 

The estate in Rouen made Christine feel like a child again, about to be introduced to a whole new world, a whole new life, a whole new chapter. Only the estate in Rouen was just an estate, and the opera house was a whole universe. And in Rouen, there was no Madame Giry, no Meg, and certainly no Angel of Music to sing her to sleep.

She sighed again. There was no point thinking about it. It just made her miserable.

It was about a twenty-minute walk to Rouen from the estate, but the journey took a little longer, as she was taking in the sights. She hadn’t actually gone into Rouen herself yet, not even with Raoul accompanying her, and so her curious eyes were greedy for entertainment. 

Their estate sat on a hill overlooking the city, and from the top, she could see everything. The sky was still dark with the last remnants of night time, and the air so cold it bit right through her clothing and made her shiver. The city was peaceful, but even from here she could hear the stirrings of activity beginning. Her favourite sight, however, was not the city or even the estate behind her, but the breathtaking sight of the cathedral. It stood tall and beautiful, an architectural marvel. Perhaps she should go there this morning. Perhaps light a candle for her father. That always calmed her down.

The walk was a pleasant one, and by the time she reached the city, the first sounds of morning had become loud and busy in her ears. 

The buildings towered above her, people rushing past in a hurried effort to begin their days. Reluctant, sleepy-eyed children were being pulled around by their mothers, some of them complaining. A boy with a messy head of black hair shouted, “I don’t care! Tell her!” presumably at a sibling. She overheard people calling out to each other, heard windows opening and washerwomen shouting. It was strange, but a comforting sight, a comforting sound.

She gestured to a passing woman and asked very gently, “Pardon me, but do you know where the post office is?”

The woman rolled her eyes. “There,” she said, pointing.

Christine followed the direction of her finger to the post office, taking her time. She couldn't help relishing in the feeling of being outside by herself for once, concerns and bad feelings aside. Raoul had been busy for the past few days, trying to sort out all the finances and upkeep of the estate with the steward. But still, even without his constant questions of _Are you all right?_ she was never alone. There was always a servant or two waiting to pounce on her, waiting on her hand and foot. She felt like an ungrateful brat whenever she turned them down - it was their job, after all - but she couldn't help finding it rather uncomfortable. There were always people to help her dress at the opera house, of course, but there was no hierarchy there; not really. No one was superior or inferior, though La Carlotta never received that memo. In the estate, Christine was expected to act like a true lady. She just couldn't get used to being waited on the way she was. She wondered if she ever would.

Perhaps it was no surprise Christine valued moments to herself. When she was alone, she could breathe. She didn't have to remember how to behave. She could just be Christine, a little less lost and a little less confused.

It was quite satisfying to walk into the post office without a servant at her side. She had a sense of purpose - as if she was truly accomplishing something. She paid a few extra francs for the ensured delivery of her letter and, rather begrudgingly, prepared to make her way back to her estate. 

When she stepped out of the post office, however, it was to find the watching man standing there. She gasped in surprise, flinching at the sight of him. He was of medium build, with a thin moustache and a face young enough that he couldn’t be older than thirty. He held himself with a strangely familiar degree of authority. He still wore the same hat from earlier, the same knowing little smile on his face that suggested she should know him.

“Who are you?” she demanded once she'd recovered from the initial shock of seeing him. “What do you want?” 

But he ignored her questions, instead asking one of his own: “Christine Daaé?”

She blinked at him. She didn’t answer, just stared at him. Who _was_ this man? What did he want from her?

“Christine Daaé?” he repeated, clearly not taking her silence as an answer.

“Yes, Monsieur,” she managed stiffly.

He nodded as if this information pleased him. “Greetings, Madame. I’ve come from Paris to see you.”

For a moment, she wondered whether he was one of her old admirers. She had had several letters of love and bouquets of flowers delivered to her since the events of the opera house, with admirers telling her just how sorry they were and how glad they were that she had managed to escape.

But this man was clearly not an admirer. 

“Oh? You’ve caught me at a disadvantage, Monsieur, I must return home,” she said, quietly, slowly, as if trying not to alarm him. “Perhaps you could call another day? I really am so very tired today.”

He inclined his head, but the hard glint in his eyes told her he wouldn’t be letting this go. "So quick to run home! Are you eager to write another letter?"

She stared at him. _What?_ What was he talking about?

"Perhaps," he continued, "concerning one of your 'mutual friends'?"

Dear God. He couldn't possibly be referring to her letter inquiring after the Phantom, could he? How would he possibly know about that?

"I really must be going," she said, trying to politely but firmly push past him. But he stepped in her way.

“I have questions of a sensitive manner,” he told her, “regarding a masked demon friend of yours.”

Her blood ran cold. Oh, God. He was. He was! This man was following her. He’d come all the way from Paris to find her. And all because he wanted to talk about _him_? Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. She had gooseflesh all over her, her hands shaking at her sides.

“I hardly know what you are talking about,” she said coldly. “Excuse me, Monsieur, but I really must be going now.”

She tried to push past him once more, but to her horror and amazement, he snatched at her wrist.

“What are you doing!” she gasped.

“Madame,” he said, and he was the pinnacle of calm. “I needn’t remind you that the whole of Paris is currently searching for that _friend_ of yours.”

“Unhand me!” she said.

"I'm sure you're well aware he is wanted for murder," he continued, ignoring her. "And I'm sure you're well aware what the punishment for murder is."

"Monsieur," she said, her heart racing faster than the wings of a bird. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Now unhand me!" She glowered at him, but he didn't seem at all intimidated. 

“There are eyes all over Paris,” he said in warning. “And now there are eyes all over Rouen.”

What was he talking about? Was she being watched?

Was her Angel being watched?

“Let go!” She struggled against him, and a nearby gentleman saw. She looked at him instead, her eyes imploring. “Monsieur! Monsieur, please, I do not know this man!”

“What the -!” the gentleman cried out indignantly. “Unhand her, man! How undignified, grabbing a lady like that! I shall be alerting the police!”

“No need,” the man said quietly, releasing Christine. His eyes had never left her. “They have already been alerted. You should take better care, Madame. Eyes are everywhere.”

He tipped his hat, a grim but satisfied smile on his face. “I’ll be seeing you, Madame. Expect me.” And then, just like that, he turned and walked away, lost in the sea of people going about their days.

The gentleman who had helped her looked absolutely horrified, but Christine couldn't find it in her to reassure him. Her mind whirled.

“Madame, are you all right?” the man asked. “Did he hurt you?”

For a moment, she was completely frozen in shock. There were eyes everywhere. People were watching her. People were most likely watching her old tutor all the way in Paris. 

And from what it sounded like, people were looking for him. Foolish, she thought, that she should forget all his crimes so easily. Of course people were looking for him. He wasn't safe, wherever he was. Did he know? Did he care? And why, exactly, did the thought of him being stalked and followed and arrested make her sick to the stomach with fear and pity and something else she couldn't or wouldn't identify? Were the police intercepting all of her letters? What about her letters to Meg?

_Christine. Calm down._

It took her another minute to realise the gentleman in the street was still staring at her.

“Oh, I’m fine,” she said, trying to make sure her voice was mild and not alarming. “He didn’t hurt me. Thank you for your help, but my husband will be expecting me home.”

“Of course, of course!”

But he lingered.

“Are you sure you are all right?” he asked finally. “Perhaps I should escort you home?” 

“That is very kind of you,” she said, “but I assure you, I’m fine.”

“Well, if you’re sure…” he murmured.

She barely noticed him walking away, so wrapped up was she in her own whirling mind.

 _Eyes are everywhere_ , the man had said.

She tried to walk home as calmly as she could, but her mind raced.

What now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written this chapter four times and I'm still really unhappy with it. I just can't get it right. But I also don't have it in me to write it again because I want to move on from Christine and Raoul's move to Rouen. I was really frustrated writing this, so I'm really sorry if that frustration shows :( 
> 
> Anyway. E/C. Plot. The train is a'chuggin. 
> 
> As always, thank you, thank you, thank you for all your support. I really appreciate it x


	6. Chapter Six: Co-Conspirators

_God give me courage to show you you are not alone…_

Her lips on his, the strangest feeling, the most heavenly feeling. He could have died there and then, and wondered, briefly, if he had. It was overwhelming sweetness, confusing passion, feelings he didn’t understand. Erik could control entire cities if he really wanted to. His sensual power was the only love he ever had in his life as he became a human spider, weaving his webs of lies and manipulation. And yet, in that moment, it was as though all of this disappeared into nothing. Christine Daaé kissed him and he felt his web untangling, his power destroyed as if she’d taken a hammer to his heart. He was a child stumbling in the dark, uncertainty possessing him like an impassioned spirit. She kissed him and he was alive, he was dead, he was everything in between. He hardly knew what to do, could only stand there in astonishment, stunned to his very core. _Christine was kissing him_. It was the greatest torture, the greatest pleasure. And when she released his face, staring at him expectantly, he could only stare back with wide, confused eyes. It was only when she kissed him again that he realised: _Oh, Christine. I have to let you go, don’t I? I have to release you._

He replayed the memory every day in his head. He could envision it in such detail, he could almost feel her lips on his again. Almost. Not quite.

It was the most delicious torture, thinking about it the way he did. Sometimes, it would be so overwhelming to recall that memory that he would sit in a stupor, frozen in place as though entranced by the mere memory of her. Sometimes, it would be too much, and he’d shut his mind off as fast as he could, desperate to escape her even as she broke through into the prison of his mind over and over and over again. Christine didn’t just take down his walls. She crashed through them, her voice striking him right to the core. He was the master, the powerful figure of her dreams, and yet, she mastered him.

Today, he was in the middle of remembering her kiss for the fourth time when Meg Giry broke into his thoughts.

“Monsieur?”

His eyes flashed open. He came back to his surroundings like a man waking from a dream, staring around him as though surprised to find himself in the parlour. The curtains were drawn (the light was too bright) and he was perched on the arm of one of the love-seats like a cat. Meg stood in the doorway, staring at him in that wary way of hers, as if she was expecting him to suddenly leap at her and strangle her to death.

In another world, her complete fear of him would have amused him, or even, depending on the day, angered him. Now, it was just tiring. 

“Ah, Mademoiselle - I beg your pardon. Did you say something?” he asked.

She stared at him in amazement. “We…we just had an entire conversation,” she said slowly. “Don’t you remember?”

No, he didn’t remember. He stared right back.

“We…did?”

“Yes,” she said. “But you thought I was Christine.”

Oh, God.

“I did? What did I say?”

Perhaps the intensity in his gaze frightened her, because she looked down at her hands instead. “You didn’t say anything bad. It was…polite.”

Erik wasn’t a religious man, but in that moment, he silently thanked any god listening that he didn’t say anything wildly inappropriate.

“My apologies,” he said, suddenly unable to look at her from all the crushing shame. “I was just…thinking.” 

This was getting bad now. He needed to do something with his time, needed a project to work on so he wouldn’t lose his mind. He’d just had a conversation he didn’t even remember having. What was wrong with him?

 _You need to sleep_ , his conscience, which was starting to sound suspiciously similar to Madame Giry, said.

He shook himself. He wouldn’t dwell on that now. He’d think on it later, when he had more time to meditate.

“Where is your mother?” Erik asked.

Meg rolled her eyes. “Who knows? She said she had an appointment to keep. Said I should keep an eye on…” She trailed off into silence, realising, perhaps, what she had just revealed.

It was no matter. Erik knew they were watching him, making sure he didn’t sneak out of the house again. He was being treated like a child, but for once, it didn’t really bother him. He didn’t like to upset the people close to him. Friends were very rare and in between, and he truly regretted the argument he’d had with Madame Giry a few days before. They hadn’t spoken about it. No apology had been said. But he didn’t miss the way her eyes followed him, the way Meg, even, seemed to watch him.

Foolish, both of them, to think they could somehow keep a magician contained within four walls. He was trapped here only because he allowed it.

“Why are you here?” he asked Meg, who was now watching him closely, as if wondering whether he had slipped into a memory again. 

Meg seemed slightly nervous to tell him. He was getting rather tired of it. He’d had a lifetime of people flinching away from him, a lifetime of people fearing him. He was sick of it now. Fear had its power, but he was beginning to realise that power was losing its charm. Power didn’t bring him his heart’s desire. His soul-song sang to no one.

Meg continued to look at him, but he sensed an awkward caution in the air, as though she didn’t quite trust him enough. “I was waiting for the post. Just in case any letters come.”

That got his attention. “Letters?” he repeated. “Whoever from?”

Meg Giry didn’t have many friends nowadays. With Erik in the house, she couldn’t exactly invite any of her friends to tea, and Meg spent most of her time acting as Erik’s jailer. If Madame Giry wasn’t here, it was Meg’s job to make sure Erik stayed confined to the house. He comforted himself with the knowledge that all of this was temporary. When Paris calmed down and the police forgot him, he would leave. And then he’d find somewhere else to go and die, with only memories of Christine to feed his hungry soul.

It was obvious who Meg was waiting to hear from, but Erik wanted to hear it nonetheless. 

She flushed as she said it, as though she was confiding a secret in him, a great shame. “From Christine, actually. She hasn’t…well, she hasn’t been replying to any of my letters.”

He tilted his head, frowning. That wasn’t like his Christine. He was well aware of just how close Meg and Christine were; in fact, at times, he felt fiercely jealous of their warm, simple relationship. Christine had started a new life of high social standing with her precious dandy, but she wouldn’t just abandon Meg like that. 

“None at all?” he asked.

Meg shook her head. An expression of concern passed over her face. He could feel her worries, feel the air grow thick with anxiety. He could barely breathe, his mind racing with possibilities. What if something terrible had happened? What if Christine was in trouble?

What if that idiot boy was somehow stopping her from writing? What if he was so eager to cut her off from her old life that he’d completely forbidden any contact with the world outside their precious estate?

No. Even if Raoul _was_ stopping the letters, surely Christine wouldn’t just do as she was told like a good little girl?

 _Well, why wouldn’t she?_ the little voice at the back of his head seemed to sneer. _She did what she was told when it was her Angel of Music telling her._

But it wasn’t the same. Erik had the power of his voice. His music was his sensuality; his music was his source of control. It was easy to manipulate someone with it, especially if that someone was lonely and missing a fatherly figure in her life. What did Raoul have? A pretty face? Christine was not so shallow that she’d be easily manipulated by a pair of pretty eyes.

Something about this didn’t feel right. Every instinct in his body urged him to go immediately to Christine.

“Do you think maybe she’s in trouble?” Meg asked nervously. 

He forced himself to play the father. “I’m sure she’s fine. She’s probably just busy with her new life. Do not fret so, child; she will write soon enough.”

He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and she flushed a deep shade of red. It was unusual for her, he supposed, to talk about her worries and concerns, especially with an intimidating man like himself. But who else did she have to talk to about such trivial matters? Madame Giry was often busy, and if she wasn’t busy, she was talking about more serious matters. Erik was here and he was listening. How strange that he should become little Meg Giry’s confidant. An unlikely arrangement to be sure, but it was probably better for his rotting mind to actually talk to someone, and if he could help her, well, why not? Erik was not usually a giving man, but the Girys had helped him so much. For all that he complained and rolled his eyes and argued with Madame Giry, he truly appreciated their help, appreciated them as people.

Not that he would ever tell them this. Erik was a master of music and magic and even architecture, but a master of his own feelings? He could practically hear the daroga laughing at the prospect.

Meg dropped down on the other love-seat, slumping in a manner so unladylike, her mother would faint if she saw it. She looked so miserable, poor girl. “The last time she wrote, she was upset,” she admitted. “She gave me her new address and asked me to visit.”

_She gave me her new address._

_She gave me her new address._

_She gave me her new address._

Technically, if he stole that letter and memorised the address, he would be doing it for a good reason. Technically, he would be doing it, not out of selfish need and desire, but out of concern. She was too quiet; even Meg was worried. Surely it wouldn’t be wrong of him to steal something if it meant helping Christine? If it meant helping Meg? It was hospitality. It was gratefulness.

_The ends justify the means._

_No, they don’t_ , his conscience said, annoying little fly that it was.

“She seemed sad,” Meg added.

“She did?” he asked. His feelings were conflicted. On one hand, he desperately wanted her to be happy. She deserved it, angel that she was, and he had released her so that she could find some semblance of peace in the world of day, where she belonged. But on the other hand, he did get a sick, twisted pleasure out of it. _So her perfect life isn’t so perfect after all. Good_.

“Well, Raoul expects so much of her,” Meg said hesitantly.

It was as though she’d momentarily forgotten who she was speaking to. The very mention of _his_ name made him grind his teeth. He should have killed him. _No_ , he chastised himself. _That is behind you_. 

_Raoul expects so much of her_. How dare he expect anything from her? He had been gifted by the gods, gifted with her love, and he dared _expect_ things from it? From _her_? The very idea made him want to scream, or throw things, or travel to Rouen to wring the idiot’s neck.

He turned Christine’s ring round his finger, taking deep breaths to try and calm himself down. He needed to do something with his hands. He wished for the strings of a violin, or the keys of his piano.

“I don’t know,” Meg continued. “I just have a bad feeling. I worry for her, Monsieur; I worry very much.”

She looked very strange. There was an unreadable expression in her eyes, an odd kind of glint he couldn’t for the life of him identify.

“I understand,” he said softly, and he did. Oh, how he did. “You and Christine are very close.”

“Very,” she agreed. She smiled, but it was a little sad. Wistful. There was a glassy look to her eyes now, the sort of look that came over people when they were lost in a memory. “We grew up together, after all. I was friends with her before anyone else. I knew she was talented right from the beginning - even before _you_!”

She paused, as if expecting him to reproach her for the insult. He didn’t. he just looked at her, letting himself be lulled by her memories as if they were his own. If someone gave him a choice of air or Christine, Erik was fairly certain he would choose Christine. The mere mention of her made his heart flutter like a lovefool.

“I just hope she’s all right,” Meg said miserably. “This really isn’t like her. She wouldn’t just abandon me like this, would she? She wouldn’t.”

No, she wouldn’t. Something wrong.

Of course, it could just be that the letters were going missing. These things happened, after all. Perhaps they were lost before they could be delivered.

But there was a horrible feeling in Erik’s gut, the sort that told him something was very wrong indeed. The instinct to rush to Christine’s side only seemed to grow. He couldn’t get the image of her, afraid and alone, out of his head. His Christine was a survivor; he knew that. He’d seen her in terrible states, had seen her breaking and broken after the death of her father, had seen her terrified of him. But he still couldn’t stop his mind from urging him: _Go to Rouen. Go to her. Do you really think the Vicomte will protect her?_

Later, when he was alone in his cellar, he said aloud: “Tell me, Christine, and please be honest. Are you in trouble?” And he could have sworn he heard her tearful answer: _Yes_. Yes, yes, yes.

Perhaps it had finally happened. Perhaps he’d finally lost his mind.

~

Days passed by with no letters from Christine. Every day, Erik would emerge from his cellar and give Meg a questioning look. Every day, she would grimly, silently shake her head, and he would crawl back downstairs to think. Sometimes, he would pace. Other times, he would just sit and think. Most times, he had to keep his hands busy, and so he’d sit for hours at a time at his piano, playing and playing and playing in an attempt to fill up the smothering silence around him. 

And God, how smothering it was! He couldn’t stand it. He would sing soft songs to himself, punishing himself by singing one-sided duets and wishing, wishing, always wishing. He couldn’t sleep. He was too busy thinking, worrying. He would read over the letter Meg had given him over and over again, searching for signs of trouble between the lines. But there was nothing obvious, and this letter had been sent a while ago now. So much could have happened since then. What terrible fate could have befallen her? And how could he save her, trapped here in Paris as he was?

_Go to her. Go to her. Go to her._

It took all his willpower not to. He thought obsessively about her.

_Just go and check. Go and see. She might be fine, but wouldn’t it better to know? Wouldn’t it be better to guide her as you have done before?_

No. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to anyone. She had her precious Vicomte to protect her, to take care of her, and for all his faults, he did love Christine. No real harm would befall her with her boy looking after her.

If he told himself enough times, perhaps he’d believe that.

Then one day Meg half-ran down into the cellar, startling him so magnificently, he lost his rhythm and ended up slamming his hands onto the lowest notes. The room filled with dreadful, violent noise. He removed his hands quickly, wincing at the assault on his ears and turning on her with a disapproving scowl.

“Did I not instruct that I was not to be disturbed?” he demanded furiously. “If you are so desperate to come down here, at the very least, _knock_!”

But for once she didn’t seem at all afraid of him. She just crossed her arms, rolling her eyes. “Are you _ever_ in a good mood? You look terrible, by the way.”

“I know,” he said. “I was born like this.”

She snorted, which was so unladylike he couldn’t help shaking his head. He took a moment to observe the stack of letters she was holding in her hand. 

All of his irritability disintegrated. He leapt up from his piano bench so suddenly, Meg flinched away from him. 

His heart clenched in his chest. _Christine_. There were letters from her right in front of him, her words, her best wishes, her thoughts and feelings all carefully written, lovingly crafted. They were _right there_. It was a physical need, a desire to lean forwards and snatch the stack of letters right out of Meg’s hands. It took all his willpower not to. He clenched his fists, forcing his eyes to stare down at the floor instead of those sinful papers.

He struggled to keep his voice even. “Are they…?”

“Yes,” she said. “They all came today. The whole pile, all at once”

He tilted his head. “That,” he said softly, “is a little too coincidental for my liking.”

She nodded in agreement, her lips a thin line of discontent. She looked like her mother then, standing there with the letters, looking at him as if they were co-conspirators. 

“Well?” he said expectantly. _Open them. Open them, tell me what they say, tell me she’s all right_.

She shoved most of the letters under her arm, freeing her hands so that she could open the first in the pile. Through the paper, he could see her handwriting, could see her name at the bottom of the page. _Christine de Chagny_. The _de Chagny_ was written a little shakier than the _Christine_. Perhaps…no.

 _It means nothing_ , he scolded himself. _Stop it, Erik._

“Oh!” Meg cried, frowning. 

“What is it?” Erik asked.

“She thinks _I_ haven’t been writing to _her_ ,” she said, visibly confused. “But I’ve sent so many letters!”

Erik frowned. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like it at all. It could be a coincidence, of course; perhaps these letters had got lost, perhaps there was a problem with the postal system at large. 

But there was something about it, something that made his skin itch. He didn’t trust it. Something was wrong; he could just feel it, an ancient rattling of his bones. _Something is wrong and something is about to happen_.

But what? 

The urge to rush to Christine’s side grew.

“Do you think maybe the same thing is happening to her?” Meg asked.

Erik just looked at her grimly. It was certainly possible. 

“Does she say anything about it?” he asked, gesturing to the letter. 

She glanced back at the letter, then back up at him. She didn’t pass it to him, and for that, he both loathed and admired her. Whatever was in that letter was private, for Meg’s eyes alone. 

“‘Please reply as soon as you can’,” Meg read from the page instead of handing the letter to him. “‘You haven’t written to me in so long now, and I’m starting to get worried. Have I upset you?’” 

Meg looked up at him again. There was a silence. It was so deafening, it made Erik want to shout or scream or sing. He did nothing. He just stood there, still towering above Meg, his shoulders actually hurting from the tension in his body. He could collapse under it, all that pain rushing around him like hundreds of little knives, stabbing over and over again. 

_She needs you. She needs you. She needs you._

_No, she doesn’t! She’s happy! She’s happy without me! No one needs me. In fact, she needs anything but me!_

Meg stared at Erik, and Erik stared at the floor, turning over every possibility in his mind. It was probably something minimal, something stupid. He felt ridiculous for overreacting the way he was. Letters went missing all the time. They got lost in delivery, got lost in the post offices dotted around France. It was absolutely ridiculous to think there could be any nefarious goings-on. 

But that feeling in his gut continued to nag him. 

And for once, it didn’t just seem to be him.

“I don’t like this,” Meg said. “It would be fine if it was just her letters going missing. But both of us?”

“Yes,” he said faintly, only half-listening.

“It probably doesn’t mean anything, does it?” Meg asked hopefully. “It’s probably just coincidence, right?”

“I don’t know,” he said quietly.

“What does all of this mean?”

He shook his head, his eyes far away.

Nothing. It meant nothing.

But it meant _something_. He could feel it. It was an instinct, the instinct to discover and uncover, the instinct to govern and protect. For the first time since he’d come here, for the first time since he’d lost everything, he had something. He had a puzzle to solve. And perhaps it really did have a simple solution - some issue with the post, something innocent that his twisted head was transforming into a monstrosity - but it didn’t matter. He felt like he was slowly beginning to return to himself.

But which version of himself was he returning to? His monikers were cold and unfeeling but hot and heady, pulling at him, fighting within him. 

He found himself sitting on the bench again, frowning to himself.

“Monsieur?” Meg asked uncertainly, and he realised he had been silent for far too long.

He glanced up at her, smoothing out his expression, trying to seem as neutral as he could. 

“What do we do?” Meg asked.

“Reply to Christine as you normally would,” he advised. “It may be that this means nothing.”

“But…?” she prompted.

“But we should be on our guard,” he said. “Be careful what you write.” 

She stared at him. Perhaps she found something displeasing in his face, because she shook her head, frowning. “You think the letters are being intercepted.”

“I didn’t say that,” he said softly.

“But you think it’s a possibility?”

He gestured vaguely. “Perhaps.”

It would make sense. The letters had been read and analysed and now they were being returned to Meg in bulk.

Perhaps he was being paranoid. Perhaps this was a ridiculous notion. The letters were sealed, after all. 

“Write to her normally,” Erik said again, “and have it delivered as you normally would.”

“And you?” she asked imprudently. “What will you do?”

He shrugged. “That,” he said very quietly, “is my business.”

~

That night, he wrote a letter of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kind of bitty, but hopefully that isn't too distracting. I didn't expect to like writing the interactions between Erik and Meg but actually they're pretty fun.
> 
> Anyway. We're getting there, folks, we're getting there. Not much longer before these two songbirds finally find each other again! I'm genuinely really excited to post that bit.


	7. Chapter Seven: Lady Luck

“I should have known you’d be in here,” Raoul said fondly.

Christine looked up at him. She had been sitting in the music room all morning, turning her wedding ring round and round her finger. It reminded her of someone, that tiny little movement, but she couldn’t think who. Perhaps she’d seen Raoul doing it and picked it up from him.

Christine spent too much time there in the music room, reliving old memories, singing with her broken voice and weeping at the piano she could not play. Raoul often came to sit and listen if he wasn’t busy, and if he _was_ busy, she would imagine a different man listening.

It was a beautiful room, and the only room where she felt somewhat close to her past. The floor was covered in beautiful, exotic carpets embroidered with golden birds. A chandelier hung down from the high ceiling, magnificent with the intricate crystals sculpted and painted to look like golden phoenixes. There were giant windows with large balconies, framed by tall, elaborate curtains. In the very centre of the room was a giant, grand piano, sleek and black and magnificent. There was a stand for sheets of music, and leaning against it was a violin case so similar to her father’s, it often brought unexpected tears to Christine’s eyes just looking at it.

There were loveseats and chairs, tapestries on the wall, even a full-length mirror, though that seemed a little out of place given the room’s purpose. A gorgeously patterned harpsichord sat against the wall, and in the corner of the room was a large harp with tight strings that Christine just couldn’t pluck right. Her Angel would know how to play. In her mind, she imagined he could play every musical instrument in the world.

She had come there that morning and stayed there, even requesting her lunch there. She was desperately trying to learn the piano without actually being taught, and it was driving her completely insane. She tried to picture how her Angel played and mimic him, but he played with such quick, liquid fluidity that even if he were right there in front of her she wouldn’t be able to keep up with his hands. Raoul knew how to play, but she was far too proud to ask that he teach her, especially since he was busy quite often. He didn’t have time to humour his distant wife like a father would his child.

Now he stood in the doorway, smiling at her, doting on her, and she felt a familiar twinge of guilt in her gut. Here she was, thinking lovely thoughts about her Angel, and there he was, her husband, completely unaware of the pseudo-adultery she continued to commit in her mind.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he told her. Then added, “You’re getting better at that.” He was referring, of course, to the piano. Kind, but dishonest. She wasn’t getting better at all. In fact, she sounded like a child, her hands so unpractised and ugly. Every note sounded too loud, too harsh.

Had her Angel played well even as a child? She could picture him, a tiny little boy, too thin, too sad, with a soulless mask covering his face. In her mind, the boy sat beside a woman - his mother, perhaps - who calmly, patiently showed him the right way to press the keys.

 _Here, like this_.

She wished he were here to teach her. He would sit beside her, the bench too small for the two of them, pushing them close together. They would sit so closely, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, and he would sing in that breathless, beautiful way of his. Low singing, velvet singing, right in her ear, awakening that strange, unfamiliar beast deep within her.

She shook herself. Now was not the time. It was a betrayal of the soul, sitting under the patient gaze of her husband and thinking of another man.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, crossing the room to gently kiss him.

“In a sense,” he answered. There were rings under his eyes, and he looked ten years his elder. He’d been so busy, so stressed. As his wife, it should be her duty to soothe him. But she couldn’t. She was too distracted, too distant. Sometimes, she would catch his eyes on her, sad, watery eyes, wondering. It was foolish, she thought, that either of them had imagined they would just move on after their run-ins with the Phantom. He haunted them even now, whispering in her ear, sighing.

God, would she ever let it go? Would she ever be able to think of anything but _him_? She just went round and round and round, singing the same old song with her broken voice.

Raoul smiled, but it was a tired smile, a faraway smile; the sort of smile that made her heart ache for him. Poor Raoul. She wished she could help him, but she could barely help herself.

“Christine,” he said, and she prepared for the bad news that was surely to come. But when he next spoke, the news wasn’t bad at all. “I’ve been called away. I’m going to have to go to Paris.”

How strange, that one word could set her whole body alight. She stopped thinking about Raoul, stopped thinking about the piano, her voice, her life. Suddenly, nothing seemed to matter but that one word.

 _Paris_. Home, home, home.

Madame Giry. Meg.

 _Him_.

Of course, he might not be there. He could have escaped elsewhere, running around France desperately trying to escape the watchful eyes of the police. But somehow, she knew it wasn’t true. He was in Paris. He had to be in Paris. And here had come her opportunity: the opportunity, finally, _finally_ , to go to him.

She struggled to keep her expression neutral. “May I ask why?”

He shrugged. “Business. Will you be all right here?”

She blinked. Wait, _what_? 

“I’m not going with you?”

“Well, of course not!” he laughed. “Christine, this is _business_. What would I look like, bringing my wife along?”

“But Paris is my home,” she said in a small voice. “Everything I have is there. My family. My friends. My father’s grave.”

“Christine,” he said patiently. “It’s business. I’m not going there for pleasure. It’s purely for duty’s sake.”

She felt rather like a child being chastised. She had to stay at home like a good, obedient little girl, and he could go and do adult things. _Business_. She hated it, hated the obviousness of the exclusion. It was expected of wives to just let their husbands go about their duties and stay at home fanning themselves, but _Paris_? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all.

Christine was not about to take no for an answer. This was Paris, her beautiful, sensual Paris. She wasn’t just going to let it slip from her grasp just so she could sit around feeling lonely and miserable whilst he went on a _business trip_.

Still, she didn’t want to push him too far. 

“When do you leave?” she asked innocently.

“Tomorrow,” he answered.

“Tomorrow?!”

Why was he only just telling her? Had he foreseen that she’d want to come? Was he telling her now so that he could get away as fast as he could, giving her no choice but to stay here?

She wouldn’t have it. 

“Don’t worry, it shouldn’t take too long,” he assured her. “I’ll be back to you in no time.” He leaned down to kiss her, and she allowed it, her mind far away and scheming. Perhaps she responded to the kiss too coldly, because when they parted, he frowned at her. “You’re not angry with me, are you, Christine?”

“No.” _Yes_.

“It should only be for a few days. A week at most. I don’t like leaving, either, Christine, especially not leaving _you_ , but I really must go.”

“If you don’t like leaving me,” she said at once, “just take me with you.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“No,” she said firmly.

“Christine.” His voice was gentle. Patronisingly gentle. “I promise you, it won’t be for very long. We can visit Paris together another time. Don’t you think it would be better if we had more time together?”

She didn’t answer, just looked at him. 

“All right?” he prompted.

She wanted to scream no, _it’s not all right, can’t you see I’m suffering here, I feel like I’m being strangled all the time and I need my friends around me or I’ll die_. Instead, she just gave him a simpering smile and said, “All right.”

He seemed to find it satisfactory, because he smiled at her. It was a genuine smile, a loving, regretful smile, and in any ordinary circumstance it would make her heart flutter with love or her gut clench with guilt. Today, she just felt a burning inside her, like the sparks of a fire that hadn’t quite caught. He would not keep her from Paris. He had kept her from everything else, but not this; she wouldn’t have it. She couldn’t take it. She needed to see her home again, needed to see Meg, needed to find her Angel. She was growing tired of pretending all the time. She needed to be around people she could just exist around. Deep down, Christine thought only one person in the whole world would ever fully understand her. But Meg came far closer to this understanding that Raoul, with his nobility and status. 

If Raoul was going to Paris, Christine was going to Paris. And she didn’t care what the roles and duties of a good wife were; she had made up her mind, and he would not be able to change it. Her stubbornness was both a blessing and a curse, as her father always used to say. _Just like your mother_ , he used to tell her with a fond smile. 

With a happy sigh, as if he’d won the battle, Raoul gave Christine another chaste kiss and turned to leave the room. “I’ll leave you to your playing,” he told her, as if leaving a child in a nursery. But at the door, he paused. “Oh! Forgive me, Christine, I completely forgot: a letter came for you.”

From his jacket he pulled out a crumpled letter, passing it to her.

She barely heard him leave. All her thoughts went to the letter. It had to be from Meg. Finally, _finally_ , she had broken her silence.

Christine half-ripped it open, consuming the words like a starved woman. And if the handwriting was slightly different to how Meg usually wrote, Christine was too relieved to notice.

_My dear, darling, beautiful Christine!_ (it read) 

_Oh, how I’ve missed you!_

_I have been writing to you, but none of the letters are reaching you! They must have got lost, but it’s no matter, because I’m going to make sure this one gets through to you._

_I miss you so terribly, it hurts!_

_I won’t be able to come to Rouen, but you are always, always welcome here in Paris. I mean that, Christine. You are always welcome here. If ever you need a refuge, if ever you need to escape, you already know the address. In fact, you should come as soon as you can so that we can see each other again!_

_I love you and miss you immensely,_

_Meg ___

____

__

____

It seemed that Lady Luck was feeling generous today. The words warmed Christine to the core. She didn’t look into it, didn’t consider the words _if ever you need to escape_ as anything more than the concern of a friend. Like a child, she clutched the letter to her chest, holding it tightly against her heart. What wonderful timing it was. Meg had given her an invitation just when Christine needed somewhere in Paris to stay. It was obvious what Christine must do.

She rushed immediately to her room, retrieved her old bag from the bottom of the wardrobe, and began to prepare herself for a trip. Cloaks, gowns, bonnets. She didn’t particularly like bonnets. But now that she was a lady, walking around the streets of Paris with her head bare was seen to be just as outrageous as walking around naked. She would never understand these strange customs, the ways of the rich. 

She made sure to pack extra money. Just in case.

She wasn’t entirely sure what she would do when she reached Paris. All she knew was that she would go to Madame Giry and Meg and stay with them for as long as Raoul remained in Paris. Everything else - her trip to her father’s grave, her trip to the opera house, her search for her Angel of Music - that would come in time. She would figure it out when she was already there. In fact, it would be easier to figure out in Paris with a confidant. Christine had to keep everything from Raoul these days, but Meg? Meg would never judge her. Perhaps she’d tell her she was being ridiculous, but if Christine asked, Meg would help her find him. And then she would beg her Angel to return to Rouen with her and continue teaching her to sing. She would have her friends, her husband, and her Angel. They didn’t even have to overlap. She could be whole again. Perhaps she was naive for thinking so, but her Angel would never deny her, would he? Never.

When she went down for supper that evening, she could barely contain her excitement. She could barely eat. Instead, she poked and prodded at her food so rudely, even the servants seemed to give her strange looks.

It was halfway through the main course that Raoul sighed and said, “Is there something you want to tell me, Christine?”

“No,” she said happily.

He smiled, his eyes laughing. “You seem very excited to see me gone.”

“Oh, no, it’s not that,” she assured him. “Meg wrote to me.”

“Ah.” His demeanour turned just the slightest bit colder, his eyes no longer laughing, his smile a tad more strained. “Is she well?”

She frowned at that. Meg hadn’t actually said how she was. The letter had been short, brief, and full of the same strange excitement she felt now. Perhaps it made sense; Meg had never been particularly fond of letters, after all, and much preferred to talk face to face. 

Instead of saying any of this, Christine simply said, “She’s fine. What time do you leave tomorrow?”

“Around eight o’clock.” He peered at her suspiciously. “Are you sure you’re all right, Christine?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “But I’m a little tired. I may retire early, if that’s all right.”

He nodded his assent and off she went, struggling to stay calm as she returned to her room. 

That evening, when her maidservant, Maria, undressed her, Christine said, “Could you please wake me early tomorrow?”

Her maid smiled at her in the mirror. She probably imagined Christine wanted to say goodbye to Raoul. “Of course, Madame.”

“Thank you,” Christine said politely. Then: “I’ll do the rest myself, thank you.”

“Shall I put out the fire, Madame?”

“No, thank you. I’ll do it myself.”

It was irregular to do so, but Christine wanted to be alone. 

“Are you quite sure, Madame?”

“Yes, thank you. Goodnight, Maria.”

Once Maria was gone and Christine was alone, she collapsed onto her bed and smiled up at the ceiling, as she’d done countless times when she was first being courted by Raoul. Only those times, _those_ times, she’d heard that stern voice scolding her.

_Such elevation!_ she remembered him scorning once. _I suppose this newfound exuberance is all for the music, is it? What have I told you about earthly pleasures?_

_That I should release them, forget them_ , Christine had said miserably.

_That includes foolish little boys! Until you forget this pathetic infatuation, I shall not return to you!_

The memory pained her. Her Angel was complex. Strange. And yet she still missed him, missed him despite all that he’d done to her. So long had she been manipulated and hurt by him, and yet here she was, desperate to crawl back and beg for his song once more. How pathetic she could be. Here she was, a wife with a perfect life, and yet she yearned for the darkness she’d fought to escape. _Christine_ , his voice whispered to her. _Return to me. You belong here_.

 _But where are you?_ she wanted to ask. _Help me find you._

But he didn’t answer, not even in her head. She’d lost him, completely lost him, and now she felt a hollow pressure where he’d once been.

She thought and thought and thought, aching for him, wishing he was here to sing her to sleep.

She would search for him tomorrow.

But tonight, she had only memories to keep her racing heart sated. She fell into a restless sleep, her mind far away beneath a beautiful opera house.

~

 _This time, the dream was far stranger_.

_Christine was standing in a small, red room. The ceiling, the floor, the walls: they were all painted a deep red, the colour of blood that had just begun to dry. There were no doors, no windows; there was only the room, small and claustrophobic. There were only things in the whole room: a long, black bed in the corner of the room, and a coffin in the centre._

_On the bed, the Phantom lounged lazily. Because it had to be the Phantom, had to be; that wasn’t her Angel. He was dressed in all black, and his familiar half-mask had been replaced by a full, black mask, hiding everything save for his beautiful, terrifying eyes. He turned these eyes on her now, and the expression was so strange, so unreadable, that she found herself shaking._

_“Where are we?” she asked, her voice shrill and alien even to her own ears. It was like someone else’s voice, a voice that grated and wailed._

_The Phantom just looked at her. He said nothing at all, and it occurred to her that maybe he **couldn’t** speak with the mask covering his mouth._

_“There’s a coffin,” she said stupidly. “Is…is there someone in there?”_

_Slowly, very slowly, the Phantom nodded._

_Something told her that she needed to see. Something told her that she needed to approach the coffin and look inside. But the very idea of such a thing petrified her. She felt like a child, frozen in place, her heart racing and her eyes too big for her face. She didn’t want to look. She couldn’t look. Somehow, she just knew that whatever lay inside that coffin, she didn’t want to see._

_“Who is it?” Christine asked wildly. “Who is it in there?”_

_The Phantom fixed her with a cold stare, as though she were little more than an ant beneath his boot. He shook his head, giving her a silent message._

_**See for yourself**._

_It was vile, unnerving, cruel: the Angel of Music, voiceless. It filled her with such a deep sense of foreboding. Something, someone, had muzzled him. The mask was a thick, black wall between them. And now he only looked at her, telling her what to do with his eyes alone._

_Despite her terror, she found her feet moving of their own accord, moving her body, pulling her towards the dreaded box in the centre of the room. She wanted to cry, wanted to scream, but her body wouldn’t listen. She couldn’t stop herself from moving, couldn’t stop herself from approaching the horrible thing._

_And when she saw the person within, she thought she’d vomit._

_It was her._

_Her, rigid in death. Her hands were carefully folded over her stomach, ringless fingers intertwined. She wore a gag around her mouth, a horrible piece of black fabric, lying there like a dead snake who could no longer bite._

_Christine was hypnotised, staring down at her own corpse with an invisible rope wrapping around her throat, keeping her good and silent._

_The Christine in the coffin, dead, dead, dead, opened her eyes. And they weren’t Christine’s eyes at all. They were the eyes of her Angel, gentle but intense. Those eyes burned into her, condemning her._

_She could hear his voice in her head._

_“You did this.”_

_It didn’t come from her dead self’s lips, or even the strange Phantom sitting on the bed. It came from inside her, within her, as though her Angel really was a spirit possessing her body._

_“No,” she choked._

_She could hear his laughter, frantic, manic, **mad** laughter echoing in her skull._

_“What’s the matter, Christine?” he taunted her. “Why so glum? You chose this, didn’t you? You wanted this, didn’t you? What’s the matter?”_

_She heard it all around her, a thousand voices - children’s voices, women’s voices, all whispering in her ears: **What’s the matter? What’s the matter? What’s the matter?**_

_She clamped her hands over her ears, but it was no use. The voices slithered in, breaching._

_“Please!” she cried out. “Please!”_

_Hands grasped her wrists. Strong hands, familiar hands. She stared wildly, right into the mouthless mask of the Phantom._

_His eyes pleaded with her._

_She reached up, snatching the mask from his face, not caring if it hurt him, not caring, she just needed to see him, the real him, she needed to hear his voice -_

_But when the mask came off, it wasn’t her Angel underneath._

_It was Raoul._

_“What’s the matter, Christine?” he asked. “No song to sing?”_

_There was a flash of silver._

_She let out the most pathetic of whimpers when she felt it: Raoul’s knife in her gut._

_When she fell to the floor, all she could hear was a chorus of voices._

_**What’s the matter?** _

_**What’s the matter?** _

_**You chose this. What’s the matter?** _

~

Christine woke unexpectedly screaming. Her maidservant, Maria, stood above her, a horrible spectre of death, surrounded by the cold, dark light of winter mornings. She was trying to reach for her, calling - “Madame? Madame?” - and Christine flinched away, half-mad with terror.

“No!” she cried out. “I didn’t! I didn’t know! Stop it, stop it!”

“Madame!” Maria said. “You’re safe!”

It took about ten minutes for Christine to finally calm down. It was as though her bed had become some kind of horrible monster; she fought to untangle herself from the sheets, not stopping her struggles until she was standing several metres away. Maria kept saying _breathe, breathe_ but it was as though Christine's lungs had ceased to work. She buried her head in her hands, gasping. She was weeping so much, her hands were completely soaked when she drew them away. Her legs felt wobbly beneath her; was she going to collapse? Maria seemed to think the same thing, because patiently, she helped her mistress sit down at her vanity table.

"Madame?" Maria asked, white-faced with shock.

Christine may as well have been deaf for all she seemed to hear her. All she could hear were those horrible, ghostly voices hissing in her head. _What's the matter?_

"Shall I fetch some brandy?" Maria asked.

This Christine heard. She stared up at her, blinking slowly as if her eyelids were desperate to close. "What?" she managed.

"Some brandy, Madame."

"No," Christine said quickly. "No, I'm fine, I just...I had a nightmare, that's all."

Maria continued to stare at her in concern, but Christine barely found it in her to care. She had never felt so taken aback and frightened by a dream before. Was going to Paris a bad idea after all?

 _No_. No, she’d made her mind up. She had to go. She had to.

Despite the way her whole body shook, she somehow managed to keep her voice even as she said, “Could you light the fire, Maria? I’m cold.”

She said nothing more as she got ready to leave. Maria dressed her and brought her breakfast (which Christine barely touched), and then Christine asked the butler to help her carry her bag to Raoul’s carriage, which was waiting outside.

He gave her an odd look when she asked.

“Is there a problem?” she asked curtly. The dream had shaken her too much for her to find the strength to be kind.

“No, Madame,” he said quickly. 

She knew what he was thinking. Raoul was supposed to be going to Paris alone, and yet here was Christine demanding that her bag be transported to the carriage. Her intentions were obvious, and Raoul’s coming reaction even more so. 

Christine was already sitting in the carriage when Raoul climbed in. The sight of her made him flinch in surprise.

“Christine!” he cried. “What are you doing here?!”

“I’m going to Paris,” she said calmly. “Why, what are you doing?”

“Christine,” he said, and this time there was a weary warning in his voice. “I thought we’d agreed that you would stay here…”

“I won’t get in your way, Raoul,” she said. “I’ve already planned where I will be staying.”

“Chris _tine_ ,” he sighed.

“I’ve written to Meg,” she lied. “I can’t just cancel like that. It’s rude.”

“How did you have time to send a letter to Meg?” he said accusingly. “I only told you yesterday.”

He had a point. Damn him, seeing through her like that. 

No matter. She’d change tactic.

She made her eyes as wide as possible, even going as far as to flutter her eyelashes and pout.

“Oh, Raoul, _please_ just let me come,” she begged. “I just miss Paris so very much. And I won’t get in your way - I really am going to stay with Meg. I’m already here; there’s no use sending me back into the house now.”

He sighed. Perhaps he was too tired to fight her, or perhaps he just pitied her and her desperation to return to her home, because he finally shrugged.

“Fine,” he muttered.

She leaned towards him, grasping his hand tightly in both of hers. When she looked into his face, her eyes were earnest.

“Thank you,” she said seriously. And she meant it. She truly did.

The journey was a long one, and she spent the majority of it staring longingly out of the window. Her mind wouldn’t stop going back to that horrible nightmare. She was still so frightened, so taken aback. Her whole body felt cold, a chill spreading inside her like frost breathing over the grass on winter mornings. She’d read somewhere in their magnificent library that dreams often meant something, and sometimes they could even predict the future. But what could that have meant? What future could possibly be so horrible? The feelings of dread, which she’d tried so hard to repress, seemed only to grow with every day that passed. 

She tried not to think about it, but it was no use. No matter what she did, all she seemed to hear was the cold echoes in her mind.

_What's the matter?_

Nothing. Everything.

She closed her eyes and saw her Angel standing there, staring at her with an unsmiling mouth.

 _I'm coming for you_ , she thought. _Don't worry. I'm going to find you._

But in her mind, he looked so sad. So lost. Perhaps she'd never find him. Perhaps he was doomed to stay lost and wandering for the rest of eternity. Perhaps the only time she'd ever see him was in dreams, eyes both pleading and accusing.

 _Please, Angel_ , she thought desperately. _Let me find you._

But her mind didn't give her his voice. It gave only the echoes.

_You chose this. What's the matter?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally so long, oh man, I had to cut it down so that it wouldn't be just ridiculous. 
> 
> Anyway. Off she goes. Shit's about to go down, folks (excuse my French).
> 
> Let me know what you think, and as always, thank you for the support and feedback x


	8. Chapter Eight: The Game Begins

It was foolish. It was cruel. It was completely and utterly monstrous. It went against everything he’d tried to become, everything he’d tried to do, for the past few months. But he couldn’t help it. Christine could be in trouble, and his instincts roared at him to protect her. And he couldn’t well protect her when they were so far away from each other, could he? He just needed to make sure she was all right. Just one glimpse of her would be enough. He just needed to know she was alive and well and happy.

It wasn’t really that bad, was it? He was doing this for her benefit. It was in her best interest. And it would help him, too, help him finally sever the ties between them and get on with his own life, or whatever was left of it. Once he got confirmation that she was happy as she was, he could just move on and find different ways to be happy, find love elsewhere. He could find love in his music again; he could find love in his friendships; he could find love in sleep and food and the normal human things. He could drag himself out of this pit. But only if he knew she was happy. Only if he knew she was safe.

It was easy to mimic Meg’s writing. He didn’t quite get the handwriting right, but the tone was perfect; he could translate her in-person, excited mannerisms into writing the same way he could translate emotion into song. It took him about an hour to perfect it. First, he wrote, _Dear Christine_. But that wasn’t enough. That wasn’t how Meg spoke. He changed it to _My dear Christine!_ Still, there was something missing. So he added and tweaked and created as he’d create a sculpture, and got _My dear, darling, beautiful Christine!_ Perhaps it was excessive. Perhaps there was a bit of him in there. But it didn’t matter. Christine hadn’t been getting any of Meg’s letters, and so this one would excite her enough that she would forgive the mistakes and changes in tone and writing. He hoped. God, he hoped.

He invited her, viper that he was, to Paris. He settled into the personality of Meg Giry, wore her face like a mask, and invited her closest friend to come and stay with her in the beautiful city. Madame Giry would kill him if she knew, but what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her, and besides, she would never turn Christine down if she turned up on the doorstep. For a start, she wasn’t cruel enough, and even if she were, Meg would never let her turn Christine away. It was the perfect ruse. It was the worst kind of trickery.

He told himself that it was all to help her, but deep, deep down, he knew he was relapsing, settling into old habits, wearing them like warm cloaks. He tried not to think of how disappointed Madame Giry would be, tried not to picture that steely, disapproving glint in her eyes. She had taken him in and cared for him despite all that he’d done, all the sins he’d committed. She had trusted him in a house with her daughter, hadn’t even commented when she saw them becoming friends despite knowing the evils Erik was capable of. She had done all this and more, and how did Erik repay her? He betrayed her over and over again, sneaking out of the house and risking all their lives, conspiring with her daughter, and now look at him: he’d promised to try and forget Christine, and yet here he was, writing a letter to her in the guise of Meg Giry. As he finished the letter, he groaned aloud at his own treachery. How could he do this? How could he? How could he trick her like this, all over again, just to satisfy his own sick need to see her happy with another man? As if there was any way she wasn’t. As if he really believed that with her perfect life and perfect husband, she could even _possibly_ think of _him_.

_It’s necessary_ , he told himself. _It’s necessary._

But if he really believed that, why, then, did he have to take a moment to curl up in his bed, weeping like a little boy afraid of thunder?

He signed the letter, _I love you and miss you immensely - Meg_. How cruel, to offer Meg Giry’s love to Christine, knowing that it wasn’t her who gave it at all. That was all him. All of it, him and his dreadful, rotten soul.

_I love you and miss you immensely_. It was true. He did. The words, to him, were a confession. _I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you and I want to die without you because you are as much a part of me as the music and now that you’re gone I feel like I’m missing a piece of myself_. But what would the words be to her? The childish love of her friend. Or, if she realised who had really written this letter, the poisonous bite of a snake, filling her up with all those bad memories, all the horrors she had faced because a disfigured maniac loved her. He was his love. To her, his love was trauma.

He had dreamt so often of what love would feel like. He’d spent years hoping for it, imagining it, making love a character in his mind, a god to be worshipped. He believed it would be a bright, beautiful thing, the sort that shone with light so intense, it was blinding. He believed it would be kind, the softness of a lover’s arms, the gentle kisses of acceptance and understanding. He believed it would be the best experience in the whole world, to be loved, to feel love, to let love take him to a place so wonderful, even Heaven would grow green with envy. But now that he had experienced it, now that he had loved and still loved, he realised that it was not that at all. Love was hard. Love was cruel. Love was not a benevolent being, but a harsh ache that would never leave, a reminder of all his flaws and wrongdoings and sinfulness. Love was the strongest thing in the world, and with all that strength, all that cruelty, it crushed him under its heavy boots and spat down on his struggling body.

Love made him write the letter as Meg; love made him steal the letter Meg meant to send to Christine and swap it with his own. 

_You’re a monster_ , the little voice in the back of his head mocked. _You’re a vile beast. You haven’t done this to move on. You’ve done it to drag her back._

“I haven’t,” he said miserably, lying on his bed and talking to himself like a complete madman. He felt so small, as if God Himself was looking down at him and mocking him for his foolishness. 

_You have. You know you have. You just want her._

“No,” he said, covering his ears with his hands as though it were a real voice. “You don’t know. You don’t know anything.”

_Weak. You can’t even be a strong, powerful monster. You’re pitiful. A pitiful little insect trying to play God._

“I’m not,” he gasped. “I’m not!”

But he knew it was true. He knew it.

He curled up on his bed and cried and cried and cried.

But it wasn’t enough. He could cry enough tears to fill the Nile, and still, Fate would laugh in his face. 

_Yes, cry, pathetic child. Cry until your eyes hurt._

And he did. He cried until he could cry no more tears, and then he just lay there, shaking, tearless sobs wrecking violently through his passive body. 

_Christine. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Christine._

But his apologies meant nothing. He’d done it. He’d sent it. And God forgive him, despite the shame, despite the horrible, gaping guilt slithering like snakes through his whole body, a large part of him was pleased.

~

Guilt made Erik’s insomnia get even worse. Most of the time, he would pace his cellar, desperately trying to ignore all of the emotions that were suddenly too much, too intense, for one person. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t get all those racing thoughts out of his treacherous head. Was this the wrong thing to do? Could he even keep this a secret? He could easily keep his secrets from Madame Giry, but Meg? Meg had become his confidant. Meg had come to trust him - stupid, foolish girl; who would trust a man like Erik? But all the same, it was him she went to when she needed to vent about her mother, and it was him she went to when she needed to cry about Christine, even if he responded stiffly and uncomfortably. And how did he repay her? He betrayed her. He took her name as a moniker in order to manipulate the woman she, too, cared and worried about. Most of the time, pacing and thinking in such a way would result in him hitting the wall, or smashing one of his sculptures. Once, he took the first letter Meg had ever given him from Christine and ripped it all up. Even tears wouldn’t come to him that time. He had just slowly sank down to the floor, staring at the wall and wallowing in self-hatred and pity. 

Rarely, he would venture upstairs and pace there, instead, as if he deemed it necessary to spread his bad mood to the rest of the undeserving house. He made sure to keep away from the windows, knowing that anyone could look in and see the strange masked man. He would sometimes walk around the whole house over and over again, and apparently he looked intimidating enough that neither Madame Giry nor Meg dared bother him.

Days passed in this fashion, and Erik began to worry less about having sent the letter to Christine and more about the fact that she hadn’t replied. Logic would tell him it hadn’t had time to reach her yet, or it only just had. His heart told him something was wrong. She was in trouble and she hadn’t got the letter. She felt alone, cold and alone and abandoned, and it was all because of his inaction. He should have delivered it personally to make sure she got it. It would be easy to steal a horse or a cab, and if he was careful on the roads, no one would recognise him.

One morning, he was pacing the parlour, muttering to himself, trying to balance the thoughts in his head by saying them aloud. That morning, it just so happened that Madame Giry had a similar idea, because she materialised, fully dressed and ready for the day, and stood in the doorway with an expression so grim, she should really reserve it for funerals. 

“Another one came,” she said grimly. “These people are as obsessed with dratted notes as you are.”

He stopped his pacing to stare at her quizzically, watching as she crossed the room and threw several letters onto the open fire. She watched them burn with a strange, almost pained expression.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

She sighed, and it was a heavy sound. Illuminated by the flames, Madame Giry’s face seemed older than ever. “Everyone in Paris is asking about you. It seems everyone is turning into a private investigator, all hunting for the Phantom.” She looked up at him. She was on her knees, and he stood above her. Why was it, then, that he felt so much smaller? “We really need to discuss a plan. We can’t stay here forever. People are beginning to suspect.”

Erik swallowed. _Monster, monster_. Here he was, endangering these people, hurting them, going behind their backs pretending to be them, and still, they wanted to help him. He half-wanted to run into the streets of Paris himself and be overtaken by all the mobs that surely awaited him.

“I’ll leave,” he said quietly. “I’ll go. I’ll -”

“They don’t know where you are yet,” she said, and her voice was a little gentler as she stood up. “We aren’t going to abandon you now, Erik. We will get through this together. We’ll find a way.”

Her voice was so steady, so sure. He wanted to dig his own grave and bury himself alive. Match the body to the face.

“Look at me,” Madame Giry said. 

He forced his eyes to meet hers. 

“We will find a way,” she said again. “Together. Do you understand? Together. And if they get too close, we will leave together, too.” 

He just stared at her in amazement. What was he supposed to say to that? He couldn’t deal with this. Harsh words; criticism; cruelty: he could deal with that. He was used to it, and wore his pain like a badge, like a mask. But kindness? Whatever was he supposed to do with it? It was useless to him. He had no outlet for it, nothing like his anger and pain and sadness, which could all manifest in opera scores and loud music. Kindness. He didn’t know it, didn’t understand it even as he hoped for nothing else. 

He swallowed. His throat was suddenly very dry, and his eyes stung. “I…thank you,” he managed to croak. 

She nodded, pursing her lips, and then she was back to her old self: matter-of-fact and businesslike, staring at him with a stern glint in her eye. “Now, stop pacing and come and have breakfast with us.” 

She didn’t appear to be taking no for an answer. She promptly turned and strode out of the room, not even glancing over her shoulder to check whether he was coming. 

And to his own surprise, he found himself following her as if she was pulling him by a string. And so it was that they all sat around the dining table at eight o’clock, dining together as though it was the most natural thing in the world even as Erik itched in his seat, desperate to escape to the cellar and wallow. He couldn’t look Meg in the eyes, desperately ashamed, and yet she seemed intent on dragging a conversation out of him all the same.

“You seem quiet this morning,” she commented, ignoring the disapproving look her mother gave her at such an impertinent statement.

He stared down at his spoon as if it could give him answers. It remained, sadly, silent. “I’m just…”

“Tired,” Meg finished. “Perhaps you should start taking something for sleep. Laudanum. Mother and I could get it for you.”

“That’s quite enough, Meg,” Madame Giry interrupted. 

Meg quietened down, but Erik thought it had less to do with wanting to obey her mother and more to do with her breakfast, which was now getting cold. Erik was constantly shocked by the sheer amount Meg could actually eat. She could eat for France. Then again, he supposed she needed to eat more, given the harsh training regiments of the ballerinas. They would be reopening the opera house soon, and Madame Giry had her daughter practising as often as physically possible. 

He hoped Christine was eating well. He hoped Raoul was looking after her. He hoped she was safe.

_She’ll be safe when she’s here_ , he reassured himself. _She’ll be safe when she has her Angel to look over her_. Despite the guilt and shame and self-hatred, Erik knew that he would feel a lot more relaxed when he knew she was safe, when he could see it with his own eyes. Letters, as he himself had proven, could be forged, and no matter what Meg said, he still worried. He needed to see Christine was all right. Needed to be in the same room as her, needed to hear her voice, needed to hear all those strange inflections so that he knew what she was thinking, feeling.

_It’s not for that reason at all. You just want her under your wing again. Angel you may be, but Lucifer was, too._

God, he was tired. Despite her impertinence, Meg was right. His eyelids were heavier than they’d ever been, and his whole body felt like lead. He just couldn’t help it: he closed his eyes, just for a moment.

He thought of Christine’s lips, her hands, the tears that glistened in her eyes. He thought of her voice, whispering, singing. 

_Oh, Erik_ , she thought he heard her say, as if far away and yet so close. _What are you doing to yourself? This is no life._

He reached for her, but he felt nothing in the darkness.

“Monsieur?” Meg’s voice burst into his head, grating against his ears and making him wince. “Are you all right?”

His eyes flashed open. To his amazement, Madame Giry had vanished, and Meg now stood above him with a worried expression.

“What?” he said, and his voice was rough. He cleared his throat. 

“Are you all right?” she said again. “You fell asleep.”

He frowned. “I…did?”

“Only for a few minutes,” she assured him, gesturing to the table, which was half-cleared. She shifted nervously. Then said: “Monsieur, er…your mask…”

He reached up to touch his face. _Oh God_. His mask was slightly skewed, and it was obviously showing parts of his face. It would explain the concern on Meg’s face, he supposed. She had, of course, seen his face before, when she and her mother had found him in that alleyway. And at least she didn’t run and scream like many did. 

It still didn’t change the way his face burned from all the shame. He quickly righted his mask, unable to look at her. 

“Thank you,” he said stiffly. _I need to get away, get away, get away, go, this is too much, too much._ “I think I shall go downstairs now.”

He stood up as if to leave, but Meg, to his surprise and slight annoyance, stopped him.

“Wait!”

He sighed. “Yes?”

“Monsieur.” She paused. “Erik.” It was the first time she’d used his name, and he would have felt slightly gratified if not for what she said next. 

“I opened that letter.”

He froze. Slowly, very slowly, he turned back to face her again. She couldn’t mean what he thought she meant, could she? Why would she open a letter that, for all intents and purposes, she believed she’d written? Unless she knew. Unless that suspicious nature of hers, so like her mother’s, had now damned him as it had damned him all that time ago, when a mob had hunted him down in his own home.

He searched her face, but there was no accusation there. In fact, she looked almost…but no. She couldn’t be. Surely?

“I can’t say I know what you’re referring to,” he said slowly.

“We both know you know,” she said. She was so calm. It was such a change from the way she’d been when they’d first met, when she’d flinched if he even glanced at her. Now, she was beginning to get a bit too confident around him for his liking. It made him uneasy. “I know my own handwriting. But it was quite convincing, actually. I think Christine will believe it’s mine.” She paused. “I sent it anyway.”

He frowned. _What?_ Why? Why would she do that if she knew it wasn’t her own letter?

Perhaps she was a mind-reader now, too, because she answered as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.

“It was quite similar to the letter I was going to send anyway. We both had the same idea.”

He stared, absolutely baffled. “The…same idea?”

She looked around her for her mother, and then dropped her voice to little more than a whisper. “Inviting Christine. That way we can just talk to her face to face and _ask_ her about all these things. I hate letters.” 

He was rendered speechless. How this girl continued to surprise him, he had no idea, but here she was, saying that not only did she know he’d invited Christine without telling anyone, but that she approved of it, that she _agreed_ with it despite everything. 

Was her need to see Christine really so intense?

He saw it in the glimmer in her eyes, in the slight flush of her cheeks, in the way she looked at him with her chin held high as if _daring_ him to say anything, to challenge him.

And finally, _finally_ , he understood.

They were both selfish, the two of them. They were both stubborn.

She saw the understanding in his eyes, and she made her own as pleading as possible. _Don’t_ , she seemed to say. _Please don’t_.

So he didn’t. 

Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “Don’t worry. I will be on my best behaviour.”

“If she comes at all,” Meg sighed. “I don’t know whether Raoul will let her.”

Erik’s eyes darkened. “He will,” he said, and his voice was soft and dangerous. “Because if he doesn’t, I shall be travelling to Rouen myself, police be damned.”

To his surprise, Meg nodded in agreement. “I understand. I’m worried about her, too.” She looked down, frowning as if to herself. “I hope she got that letter.”

“There is no way to know for certain,” he said softly. 

“No,” Meg agreed. “Not now.”

Later, when he sat alone at his piano, staring blankly at the keys, he pondered what he would actually do if Christine did get the letter, if she did come to Paris. Would he even be able to stay away from her? After all, his resistance was clearly bad against her. He’d already given in just by writing to her. But Meg approved. Meg, sensible Meg, approved of his actions.

Did it validate him? No. Yes. Maybe.

He felt a little less like a monster, a little less like an immoral beast. He had crossed the line between right and wrong, but had he? Had he really? 

Perhaps he didn’t actually care. Right and wrong, wrong and right. When had he ever been a moral beast? Why should he deny himself like this, constantly berate himself for acting as any normal lovesick fool would? Did it matter that he was wrong to lure her back to him, even if he tried to convince himself it was purely for her protection? The world didn’t listen to him, didn’t care to. So why should he follow its rules, find some pointless morality? Why should he?

_Because you aren’t a beast at all._

He felt Christine’s hand on his shoulder, fingers stretched out over the fabric of his clothing. He felt her lean down, felt her lips press against his temple, the ghost of a kiss.

_You aren’t a demon. You aren’t an angel. You’re just a man._

He leaned in to the touch as though it were real, eyes closed, revelling in it. 

_Please_ , he wanted to say, but what was he pleading for? 

He opened his eyes and she wasn’t there. It was just him. Just him and this tiny, constricting room. 

But not for long. Not for long.

His Persephone was coming home, and he was ready to receive her.

~

She arrived at the house the following evening.

He could hear her from downstairs.

“Meg! Oh, Meg, I’m so happy to see you!” 

And as soon as he heard her, he knew.

He had won this game. He had lost.

It was over, and yet it had only just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to leave you guys hanging like that. Or am I? 
> 
> As always, thank you for all the support and let me know what you think! x


	9. Chapter Nine: The Beauty Underneath

There it was. Paris.

Christine’s heart swelled at the mere sight of it. She never thought she would become so attached to it, so sentimental about it. In the happy days of her childhood, she and her father had always seen Sweden as their home. Even when they eventually travelled to Paris, they told each other that one day, _one day_ , they would return to their native land where they truly belonged. But now, staring around her at the beautiful city, Christine realised that somewhere along the way, she had made a nest out of Paris.

She barely remembered Raoul until he materialised beside her, offering his arm for her to take. He had insisted on chaperoning her straight to Madame Giry’s door, arguing that it was dangerous for a lady to walk the streets of Paris in the middle of the night. She argued against it, of course, wishing for peace when she breathed in the city, but Raoul wasn’t listening.

Part of her wondered whether he was suspicious as to her intentions and wanted to make sure she really _was_ staying with Madame Giry. It made her teeth grind in her mouth. She had sacrificed everything - her music, her friends, her maestro - for him. She had let go of her life to become his wife. And still, _still_ , he didn’t trust her.

“I can’t say I miss it here,” Raoul said, looking around at the streets. “Too many bad memories, don’t you think, Christine?”

She couldn’t say she agreed, so she simply hummed in response. Paris looked so beautiful in the evenings. There were still people walking around, young couples hanging off each other and giggling like children; parents carrying sleeping children against their breasts; grumbling gentleman smoking their cigars as they walked along. It was like something from a painting. It wasn’t late enough that it was dark, per se, but the sky was a gentle, darkening blue, and the lights illuminated their way as if the city itself wanted to lead her to her true home.

She let out a sigh, and she could almost feel her song returning to her, music breathing life into her lungs. It was like coming home to a lover. Paris received her with open arms, embracing her, protecting her.

It didn’t seem to treat Raoul the same way.

“By Jove, it’s cold!” he complained. “Aren’t you cold, Christine?”

“How could I be cold?” she said dreamily. 

They had reached the Rue de Rivoli now. Christine had forgotten how tall the buildings were. She felt like an ant staring up at them, and somehow, it was the best feeling in the world. They passed several people walking down the street, some of whom glanced at Raoul’s frowning face as if in disapproval, some of whom peered at Christine. She supposed some of these people would remember her. It had felt like decades since she’d last been here, but in reality, it had only been months. Now she was returning, changed, different, and somehow, she still felt like that little girl clutching her pappa’s hand, hiding from all the prying eyes. But now her father was dead, and it was her husband who walked at her side.

She had a different mental image then, of a much taller gentleman with searching eyes and a strange mask. Would he take her arm? No - he’d be too afraid to. She’d take his. And they’d walk down the Rue de Rivoli like a normal couple, like a husband and wife.

_No, Christine_ , she thought furiously. She wasn’t going to search for her Angel for _that_. She was a married woman. She wanted him only so he could reignite that musical spark deep within her. _Musical. Musical_. It was all about the music. Nothing more.

As they walked, neither Christine nor Raoul noticed the man following them steadily, watching them as intently as one might watch an opera. They didn’t notice him follow as they twisted round the streets until they found the correct one - a back-end street with tiny little houses and flats - and finally, finally came to Madame Giry’s home. They didn’t notice him at all.

At Madame Giry’s door, Christine turned to Raoul.

“I’m sure you have your business to attend to,” she said awkwardly. _Go away. I want this reunion to be mine and mine alone_.

“Right,” he said, just as awkwardly.

It was as though they were somehow saying goodbye to each other for the last time, as if this was a farewell.

“Thank you, Raoul,” she said gently, staring at him from under her eyelashes. She was suddenly, strangely shy. 

“You’ll stay safe, won’t you?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“I’ll come and check on you,” he promised. “But I know you’ll be safe with Madame Giry. A very, ah, robust woman, isn’t she?”

Christine smiled. “Robust is certainly a word.”

He leaned down. Their parting kiss was sweet and gentle, the sort of kiss reserved for nervous, inexperienced lovers. He held her face in his hands confidently, but the kiss itself was so shy. When they parted, she felt almost saddened by it. She was briefly overcome by a need to keep him here, to hold onto him, to use him as a crutch in a world that continuously pushed her over. But the feeling was fleeting, and was gone sooner than it had come.

Once he was gone, she knocked twice on the door: a steady, strong knock, the sort that suggested a lot more confidence than she actually felt. 

It took a few moments for anyone to answer. She could hear scuffling coming from within the four walls of the house, could hear a voice - Madame Giry’s? - muttering, “For heaven’s sake, do you mean to get us all killed?”

Then the door opened, and nothing else mattered because _Meg_ was standing there, dear, darling Meg, her best friend, her sister in all but blood.

In that moment, Christine forgot all about being a proper, dignified lady, forgot all about the airs and graces of high society. She dropped her bag and flung herself at her old friend, clutching at her like a lifeline.

“Meg! Oh, Meg, I’m so happy to see you!”

Meg laughed, clutching her even tighter. “Christine!”

They parted, but Meg didn’t seem able to resist grabbing Christine’s hands, beaming at her with a face like sunshine, her blonde hair like a halo as it was illuminated by the lights of the house’s interior.

“God, you’re cold - you’ll catch your death out there!” Meg cried. Her eyes seemed to well up with tears, and when she pulled at Christine’s hands, Christine allowed herself to be taken into the house. “Please, sit, sit, we’ll get you some tea!”

Without pausing to let Christine answer, Meg rushed out of the room, presumably to get this tea. She left Christine alone with Madame Giry, who stood near the fireplace with an expression of absolute shock on her face.

Madame Giry didn’t seem to know what to say. She just stared at her in amazement, wide-eyed. She looked a lot older than she had the last time Christine had seen her. There were more lines of age on her face, and dark ringlets under her eyes. She seemed a little frailer, though she held herself with the same powerful stance as always.

“Christine,” she said finally. “It’s good to see you.”

With none of the manic energy of her daughter - where _did_ she get it from? - Madame Giry reached for her and pulled her into an embrace. It was unusual to say the least. Madame Giry had never embraced Christine, and yet now she was hugging her as if they were friends. She released her, and when she did, she actually smiled. A warm, only slightly strained smile that almost met her eyes.

“We weren’t expecting you,” she said, and the words came with a strange undertone Christine had never expected from Madame Giry. _You shouldn’t be here_. Madame Giry had always been welcoming. She was stern and a little difficult, but she loved Christine as a daughter and took care of her as such. Now, the look in her eyes suggested concern, almost _fear_ , at Christine’s presence.

“Meg invited me,” Christine said, frowning. “She wrote to me.”

Madame Giry’s eyes took on their familiar steely glint. She hummed, but said nothing. Christine could already tell Meg was going to be in a lot of trouble.

Christine found herself sinking into a chair near the fireplace. She didn’t feel cold at all. For the first time since she’d left Paris to marry her husband, she felt warm. She felt safe. She felt sane. It was as though a tiny piece of her had been restored. It wasn’t enough - it would never be enough, not until she had her Angel returned to her - but it was _something_. It was a start. And she felt more alive than she had done in a while.

Meg bounced back into the room carrying a tray of tea and teacups, putting it down onto the table with as much force as a clumsy child. Madame Giry, however, didn’t even comment as the tea splashed over onto the tray. She was watching the flames burn behind Christine with a strange expression, halfway between a frown and a smile. What was wrong with her? Why did she keep glancing at Christine like that? So Meg hadn’t told her she’d invited Christine to the house; surely Madame Giry couldn’t be _that_ angry about it? It wasn’t as though Christine was a stranger to her. They were practically family.

But still Madame Giry kept peering and frowning, and still Christine found herself shifting uncomfortably. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come here. Perhaps she really should have waited until she and Raoul could come together. That way, she wouldn’t feel quite so out of place.

Meg nudged a teacup and saucer into Christine’s hands, momentarily distracting her from her doubt. They sat together, sipping at their tea like ladies of high society, and the thought was so ridiculous that Christine almost burst out laughing.

“So,” Meg said, grinning from ear to ear. 

“So,” Christine repeated, smiling.

“Are we to expect your husband, too, Madame?” 

Christine chuckled. Hearing the word _Madame_ from Meg's mouth was so strange and surreal. In Rouen, it was easy to become Madame de Chagny, easy to become the titled lady of the house. Here, with her old friend, it felt strange that she should now be so different. 

"Well?" Meg asked, smirking. "Is the Vicomte coming?"

Christine tried not to notice how Madame Giry appeared to pay special attention to her answer.

“No, he has business to attend to. I had hoped…” She paused. It was rude to ask if she could stay here. Meg had offered in the letter, but it was always uncivil to assume. Still. It was just Meg. Meg and her mother. Christine didn’t have to pretend here, didn’t have to be something she was not. “I had hoped -” she began again.

“You can stay here,” Meg said at once, almost as if she’d read her mind.

“Meg,” Madame Giry warned.

“You can stay in my room with me - it will be like when we were children!” Meg continued as if her mother hadn’t spoken. “If that’s not too strange for you - you know, now that you’re a lady.”

“No, no,” Christine said at once. “That would be wonderful. Thank you, Meg. It won’t be for very long, I promise - just until we return to Rouen. I just needed to see you, and when I received your letter…”

Meg grinned. “You don’t have to explain, Christine. You’re always welcome here. As the letter said.” She peered at her, and there was a glint in her eyes that made Christine frown. _As the letter said_. Why did she get the impression that there was something she didn’t know?

“Meg,” Madame Giry said again. “A word.”

“But Christine -” Meg began.

“ _Now_ ,” Madame Giry said, and this time the word held a serious undertone. 

Meg sighed. When she next looked at Christine, there was a silent apology on her face. 

She left the room all the same, trotting after her mother as Madame Giry stormed into the other room.

And then Christine was alone.

She wasn’t quite sure what to do with herself. She found herself staring around her, committing every detail of the house to memory. It was pretty enough, humble but modest with well-loved furniture and wallpaper that only slightly seemed about to peel off the walls. It was a nice house, a small and homely house. The kind of home Christine had dreamed of owning when she had been just another ballet rat. The kind of home she now frowned upon, accustomed as she was to the giant, beautiful homes of lords and ladies.

The hallway led into two rooms: the parlour and the lounge, which was connected to the dining room. Somewhere around here, there was a kitchen, but Christine had no idea where it might be.

Opposite the drawing-room where Christine now sat was a different door. It seemed strangely dark, the doorknob a stained brass. There was something about that door. Something that called to her.

As she sat there, gazing at it, the room completely silent, she thought she heard something. Her name, spoken in a soft, strange voice, so dreadfully familiar and yet so impossible.

“ _Christine…_ ”

It was coming from behind the door.

Where did she recognise it? That voice struck something within her, igniting her heart like a white hot flame. She was hardly aware of herself. She knew only that she was standing, staring wide-eyed at the door. 

“ _Christine_ ,” it said again, that voice that at once haunted and delighted her. “ _Come_.”

It beckoned her, dragging her forwards as though she were being pulled along by an invisible string. She found herself reaching, her hand outstretched, her fingers desperate for the touch of that door, of the handle, of whatever angel lay beneath. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t, and yet, and yet, oh, and yet…

“Christine?” 

Meg’s hand closed around Christine’s wrist, waking her out of the nightmare, the dream. As soon as the voice stopped whispering, Christine felt her senses return to her, felt that fog lift from her brain and reveal the truth beneath. It had sounded so _real_. But that was just ridiculous. No one was calling to her. She was going completely mad, and now here she was with Madame Giry and Meg and they were going to realise just how dreadful the health of her brain had become.

“Christine?” Meg repeated.

Christine blinked at her, frowning. “What?”

“Are you all right?”

She would have to pretend. She would have to lie and smile just as she did with Raoul. She’d have to make Meg sure that everything was just fine, so that no one would think any less of her. 

But when she tried to do this, when she tried to lie, she found that the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she felt her eyes well up with unexpected tears, felt her throat constrict. Perhaps she was tired from the day of travelling; perhaps she was overwhelmed by her return to Paris. But somehow, something made the tears spill down her cheeks, and once they started, she found it very difficult to stop. She barely heard the word “no” leave her mouth, but it must have done because Meg’s expression was one of pure concern.

She didn't know what happened. As the voice disappeared and she realised no one was calling to her, she was suddenly overwhelmed. All of her sadness, all of her feelings of the lack of belonging and the gaping hole in her heart: it all came crashing down upon her.

“Come on,” Meg said quietly. “Let’s talk.”

And she pulled her away into her room, Christine’s temporary home and safe haven. A safe place, a place of comfort. Even Raoul couldn’t reach her here.

Once the bedroom door had closed behind them, Christine half-fell onto Meg’s bed, momentarily forgetting rules of etiquette and correct behaviour. It was just Meg. It didn’t matter.

Meg sat beside her, taking one of Christine’s hands in both of hers. And if she was alarmed when Christine leaned on her, resting her head on her shoulder, she thankfully didn’t comment. Instead, she wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding her close like they used to when they were children.

“What is it?” Meg asked, and her voice was so soft Christine barely heard it.

But how could she get into it? How could she even begin to explain the myriad of feelings she had been overtaken by? 

“I don’t know,” Christine admitted. “I don’t understand how I feel.”

“You don’t have to understand it,” Meg assured her. “There are many things we don’t understand about ourselves. I don’t understand why my hair is yellow.”

Despite herself, despite the tears now falling down her cheeks, Christine let out a soft laugh. She didn’t think she’d be able to articulate any of it, any of these overwhelming feelings. But somehow, the words came spilling out. And once she started, she didn't seem able to stop.

“I don’t know how to explain it. Any of it. I should be happy. But I just needed to come to Paris, needed to see you, needed to get away from my life. I feel like I’m not even myself anymore. I feel like I’ve lost a piece of myself, like I left it in the opera house. And I don’t know who I am without it, Meg. I wasn’t made for this life. I’m just…” She took a deep breath. “I’m just tired. It feels exhausting having to pretend all the time. Having to be someone else. It feels like a masquerade. But the mask won’t quite fit.”

Meg’s arm tightened around her, but she said nothing. Perhaps she understood, somehow, that Christine just needed to talk like she hadn’t been able to since her marriage.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” Christine continued. “I should be happy. I have to be happy. I’ve got everything I’ve ever wanted. But I just…I can’t…” She took another breath, lifting her head from Meg’s shoulder and instead staring down at her hands. “I’m tired of trying to be someone else. This life isn’t mine. It’s someone else’s. I feel like a thief.”

“You’re not a thief,” Meg said softly. “And who says you can’t be unhappy?”

“I shouldn’t be. It’s wrong to be. It’s -”

“No,” Meg interrupted. “It’s not wrong. Your entire life has just changed. You still haven’t adjusted. It doesn’t mean you can’t be happy; it just means that things aren’t what you expected. Christine.” Her hands tightened on Christine’s. “You shouldn’t pretend to be someone else. Can’t you talk to your husband about this?”

“He wouldn’t understand,” Christine said. And it was true. He wouldn’t. 

Somehow, Meg understood the reasons why without even having to ask. 

“You can tell me,” she said. “You can always tell me.”

Christine felt her heart swell. And she knew it was true. Knew all of it was true. Meg was a light in her life and always had been, even in her darkest moments, and even now, with the return to her old life overwhelming and confusing her, Christine knew she was supported. She knew that somehow, even if she didn’t fully understand, Meg did what many people did not: she tried. She tried to understand. And that, for now, was enough.

And so she told her. She told her everything - from her fear that she wouldn't be a good enough wife for Raoul to her constant yearning for her old teacher. Meg listened to it all. She nodded, she hugged her, and sometimes she would interject with, "I understand" or "That sounds hard" or even " _Les hommes fous_!" which made Christine giggle. But mostly, she just sat and listened. It was a little thing, listening, easy to do, and yet Meg listened like no other. She listened like she understood, even if she didn't, even if she never could.

And when Christine was finally tired out by her confessions, Meg just held her and said, "We'll find a solution, Christine. We always do."

Despite everything, despite her feelings and relationship with Raoul and confusion, Christine felt comforted by this simple promise. They would find a solution together. That was enough.

~

Hours later, when conversations had been exhausted and Christine slept, she thought she heard that voice again. It seemed to penetrate her dreams, pushing its way through the defences of sleep and forcing her to listen. 

_Christine...can you hear me?_

It was an odd thing for any old voice to say, but in her sleeping state, she didn’t really understand why. She was half in a dream. Half of her slept beside Meg, frowning in her sleep; the other half of her floated underwater, staring around her at the darkness of the sea’s depths. And both halves responded to that voice, turning her head towards it as though she could somehow see the source.

I can hear you, she thought, or perhaps said; she couldn’t be sure. But the voice didn’t seem able to hear her. It was as though a wall stood between them, blocking the way. And even as she swam through the ocean in her dream and fidgeted in the bed in the waking world, she couldn’t find the man behind the voice.

_Christine…_

_I hear you_ , she thought again.

_Christine…follow my voice…_

And in an impossible voice, the voice of angels, the voice began to sing. It sang to her so beautifully, so strangely familiar, that she felt fresh tears drip down her face. Her mortal ears were unworthy of such a godly sound. She felt like a worshipper kneeling before an ancient spirit, begging for its song, begging for a single word. In her dream, she swam and swam and swam, but she couldn’t reach the immortal plain of the gods where the voice’s owner surely resided. In the waking world, she found herself standing up, walking as if in a different dream, trying to find him - that angel, that spirit.

The voice was somehow familiar to her, and yet as he continued to sing, she couldn’t place it. It awoke something deep within her. 

Her soul knew that song.

Somehow, her mind blocked her from this detail. 

_Who are you? Who are you?_ Desperate thoughts of a madwoman.

_Think_ , the voice seemed to answer, though the song never stopped. _Who could I be?_

She didn’t know. She forgot everything as he sang to her. Herself, her surroundings, the people in the house with her. She forgot her own name, briefly, briefly, because it didn’t exist outside of his voice. She only existed when he called to her. He must be a siren. There was no other explanation. A siren called from the depths of the sea, and Christine blindly followed that call, swimming and stumbling and walking as though she were being pulled by that same invisible string all over again.

She saw nothing, acknowledged nothing. If she exited Meg’s bedroom, she didn’t notice, and if she entered the drawing room, she didn’t see. If she walked towards the cellar door, she wasn’t aware. She didn’t even feel the cold against her underdressed form, didn’t even notice the sound of footsteps behind her. Another voice called to her - _Christine?_ \- but that voice was irrelevant, the voice of an unworthy mortal. That voice below…that was the voice she must heed. And that voice called to her still, beckoning with an invisible finger, whispering promises and threats.

Again the mortal asked _Christine?_

The voice became lower, seductive, a voice that swirled deep within her. The sea of her dreams had spread inside, and suddenly she was nothing but a bearer of water, a vessel for music and love.

“Stop it, Erik!” she heard someone say.

And then the voice stopped.

Christine came back to herself like waking from a dream. She was standing before the cellar door, her hand already in the process of turning the door-knob. A cold hand clutched at her wrist, and when she turned around, it was to see both Meg and Madame Giry standing before her, wearing expressions of equal shock and horror. 

“You must not go down there,” Madame Giry, who was holding her wrist, said. “Do you understand? Never go down there, no matter what you hear.”

Christine just stared at her. “What?” she whispered.

In answer, Madame Giry shook her like she was shaking a child. 

“You must not go down there!” she repeated, and this time her voice was a snake’s hiss. “It’s dangerous! Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Christine gasped. “Yes, I understand!”

“Good. Good.” Madame Giry pulled her away from the door, and Meg grabbed her instead. “Back to bed, the both of you.”

It was as though they were being scolded, but for once, it didn’t condescend or annoy Christine. All she felt was the intensity of the voice’s entrancement, and the deep curiosity.

“Come on,” Meg whispered, pulling at Christine’s hand. “Come on.”

~

Normally, Christine would take Meg’s silence as a warning. _Don’t mention last night_. She would respect the silence of Meg and her mother, she would respect Madame Giry’s orders to leave the cellar alone. Normally.

But this was not _normally_. That voice was something else. And even now, away from the strange hypnotism, Christine still couldn’t understand, couldn’t begin to fathom, where she’d heard that voice before. She recognised it, or something deep inside her did, but her brain apparently had decided she needed to be protected from the truth. Like Raoul, like Meg, like Madame Giry, Christine’s own mind worked to keep her safe and naive and stupid. And like with Raoul, like with Meg, like with Madame Giry, Christine wanted desperately to rebel.

And so as soon as Meg was awake, Christine asked, “What’s in the cellar?”

Meg seemed remarkably uncomfortable at the question. She couldn’t even look Christine in the eyes. “Storage. Lots of old boxes and crates. It’s very messy down there - Mother doesn’t like anyone seeing it. We don’t have a servant and we’re often too busy to move it all.”

Christine narrowed her eyes. She had been lied to many times before, by men she loved, by men she worshipped, and she wouldn’t suffer the same treatment from Meg.

“What’s _really_ down there?”

Meg glanced at her. “Like I said. Storage.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’ve never once lied to you,” Meg said, scowling. “You’ve never once questioned anything I’ve said to you.”

“I’ve never had cause to,” Christine countered. “Now I do. You’re hiding something. What?”

Meg slotted the last pin into her hair and turned to face Christine, who was sitting fully dressed on the bed. “Everyone has a right to their secrets, Christine. And this isn’t my secret to give.”

“Fine,” said Christine. “I’ll ask your mother, then.”

And so she did. And Madame Giry, much like her daughter, said that the cellar contained storage. A terrible mess of it.

“We’ve found it quite dangerous,” Madame Giry said. Like Meg, she was unable to look Christine in the eye. “Crates have been known to kill.”

The very idea that they would try and trick Christine with _crates_ was absolutely ridiculous. She wasn’t a stupid child who would just accept what they told her. But then again, Meg was right. Everyone did have a right to their secrets. And if Madame Giry didn’t want Christine to know, it was no business of Christine’s. She shouldn’t go looting through Madame Giry’s home just so she could satisfy her curiosity, especially not when she had come to Paris to spend time with Meg and find her Angel. She would be wasting time by trying to discover the contents of the cellar.

But no matter how much she tried to put it from her mind, she just couldn’t stop thinking about it.

That night, she decided not to sleep. Instead, she steadied her breathing and pretended, fully aware that Meg would be keeping a closer eye on her now that she had expressed too much interest in the cellar. She listened very closely, waiting, waiting, and when she was sure Meg was asleep, she crept out of the room once again.

This time, she went to get a glass of water. Or at least, that was the excuse she planned to give, should anyone ask. Really, she must have stood in the drawing room for around an hour just staring at the cellar door, hoping to hear the voice once more.

And it didn’t disappoint. 

“ _There you are_ ,” it said, as if it could somehow predict that it would be her, as if it had been waiting for her behind that mysterious dark door.

Not wanting to wake anyone up, Christine moved closer to the door, resting her ear against it so she could hear properly.

Through the oak, she whispered, hoping against hope that the voice’s owner would somehow hear her: “Here I am.”

She could have sworn she heard a sharp intake of breath, but it could have been her imagination.

“ _You shouldn’t be here. It was very foolish of you to come_.”

“I know,” she answered, breathless. Something about this felt so forbidden. It also felt familiar, dreadfully familiar - so familiar, she had chills running all over her body. She felt like a girl being caught doing something she shouldn’t. “I know you. I know you, don’t I?”

“ _Dear girl, you cannot mean to tell me you’ve forgotten already? Is your new life really so distracting_?”

And at once, all that uncertain familiarity, all the recognition her brain tried to prevent - it all made sense.

She had come to Paris wanting to find a certain person. 

And somehow, Fate had put him right in front of her. He was right behind this door. 

“Angel?” she breathed.

“ _Christine_ ,” he answered.

Her hand flew to the doorknob before she even knew what she was doing, but when he next spoke, something in his voice halted her.

“ _Christine…your life is normal_.”

The meaning was clear. 

_Your life is normal. You chose normalcy. If you open this door, you will be sacrificing that normalcy the same way you sacrificed oddities that day you left with Raoul. If you open this door, you forgo all sense of normalcy, all sense of familiar comforts. You let the night in_.

“I don’t care,” she said aloud, as if he had really said this to her. “I don’t care.”

And this time, when she opened the door, nobody stopped her.

And then she was staring down into the cellar, right into the masked face of the Angel of Music himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry for the wait on this one - had a few personal issues come up. I hope this chapter is okay all the same. Chapter title is from "The Beauty Underneath" on the Love Never Dies soundtrack.
> 
> Anyway! In the next chapter, they're finally going to talk properly! Finally. It's only taken them 9 chapters.  
> Sorry. I like writing slow burns. 
> 
> As always, thank you for all your support and please let me know what you think. Stay safe xx


	10. Chapter Ten: True Love is Cruel Love

He couldn’t stay still. He paced, he tapped, he ran his hands over his face. He removed the mask, replaced it, removed it again, replaced it again. No matter what he did, Erik could not stop moving.

The knowledge thrummed through him, passion, love, pain, anguish: it all rose up within him, desperate for a release and denied it again, and again, and again. He would deny himself. He had to deny himself.

But it was very difficult when he knew.

Knew, of course, that Christine was here.

She was right above him. She was staying in Meg’s room, probably curled around her like two kittens in a litter, or children clutching at each other from fear of the dark. Meg’s room was right above the cellar. And it was driving Erik completely and utterly mad.

Christine, his Christine. So innocent, so ignorant to his presence. She had come to Paris to see the Girys, and he, viper that he was, had tricked her into staying here, pretending to be little Meg Giry. Meg Giry had become another moniker for him, and his writing hand appreciated the new game. But the game was over. He had won. Christine was here, and he had managed to trick her as he had done countless times, and he should be thrilled.

In a way, he was. Excitement possessed him, caressed him. He could barely contain it. One part of him, the part of childlike wonder, wanted to jump up and down in utter glee and enthralment. The other part of him, the darker, Phantom part, wanted to swoop down upon her like the Angel of Death, taking her down to the cellar and claiming her as his underworld bride.

He did neither. He just paced. And paced. And paced. Until it drove him completely mad and he forced himself to sit down and stay _still_.

He heard creaking upstairs; the sound, perhaps, of someone getting up out of bed. Yes, that was a door, he could hear it opening; and that, that was the sound of footsteps: someone was coming. 

It was like some kind of primal instinct within him. He knew it was Christine. He just _knew_. He could sense her, could sense her coming closer and closer and closer.

He stood up. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop himself. He was addicted to her, and no matter how hard he tried, when she was so close, he had to try, had to try, _had to try_.

He stood at the foot of the stairs leading up to the cellar door and he began to sing. He sang gently, his voice silk and satin. He sang songs of love, of yearning, pouring his soul into each word, each note, throwing his voice so that it would pool around her like liquid.

He heard her move closer, towards the cellar. His song was a rope wrapping around her, and he used it to pull her towards him, bit by bit, step by step, _come, Christine, come to me now_.

And she did. Devil be his witness, she did.

He could practically sense her behind that door, could practically feel her fingers closing around the door-knob as if they were closing around his hand as he led her back to the world of night. She was so close, so close, so unbelievably close...

And then he heard Madame Giry’s voice calling her back. _Christine? Christine!_

He gritted his teeth. No. No, he couldn’t allow it, he wouldn’t, he couldn’t, he had to continue. And so he did. He continued to sing to her. 

_Come to me. Come to me. Come to me._

Madame Giry shouted, “Stop it, Erik!”

And then the spell was broken. He stopped singing, overtaken by a sudden, murderous rage. How dare she get in the way? His Christine was above him, invited by _him_ , and he _would_ see her if he wished it!

He forced himself to calm down. 

It wasn’t Madame Giry’s fault. She was trying to protect her, misguided though she was, and in all fairness, this was unnecessary. Erik had made a promise to himself, to Meg, that he would be on his best behaviour.

But he no longer cared. He didn’t, he didn’t, he didn’t.

So when Madame Giry stormed downstairs and shouted at him with flashing, dragon-like eyes, he took it all without a word. He accepted her violent words, accepted her fury, knowing he deserved every angry word. He took it all and said nothing, keeping his head down and eyes shadowed.

The following evening, he stood at the bottom of the cellar stairs for what felt like a century, waiting. When he heard Christine leave her room again, he listened in silence. And when he knew she was standing in the drawing-room opposite the cellar, he gave in to his darker side, gave in to that urge, and he called to her.

And finally, _finally_ , she came to him.

She opened the cellar door.

Everything seemed to come crashing around him. _Oh, God_. All the resistance he’d built up vanished when he saw her like that, standing there above him. She was a dark goddess, a night-thief, a beautiful succubus come to take his soul. She would do him so much harm. He would thank her for it.

“Christine,” he whispered. God, what a beautiful name. It sat sweetly on his tongue, delicious in his mouth. He said it again: “Christine.”

And she began to descend towards him. He was frozen in place, stopped by her stare. She looked at him with wide eyes of childlike wonder. How could he have mistaken her for a succubus? She was nothing of the sort. She was an Angel of Light, a beautiful, godly being, innocent and perfect and _his_. He would do her so much harm. Would she thank him for it?

She stopped on the third step, now eye to eye with him.

He hardly dared to breathe. Which of them would speak first? Which one of them would touch?

Her. Of course.

She reached out, and despite everything, when she touched his face, he flinched as though he’d been burned. He was so tense. But she didn’t withdraw her hand. She kept it very still on his face as though she understood, and after a moment, he relaxed, even leaned in to the touch.

“There you are,” she murmured.

Yes. “Here I am,” he agreed, so softly he was afraid she might not hear it.

But she did. Of course she did. 

“I’ve been looking for you,” she told him. “I didn’t know if I’d find you.”

“You found me,” he breathed. “I’m here.”

To his alarm, her eyes welled with sudden tears. He covered her hand on his face with one of his own.

“Hush, my darling,” he said softly. “Everything is all right.”

But it wasn’t. And they both knew that.

She had returned to him, and he welcomed her home. And yet, there were boundaries between them, walls that neither of them would be able to tear down so easily. The pain - it was too much, too overwhelming, perhaps on both sides. They’d hurt each other. They’d broken each other. And now they came back together like disparaging pieces of a puzzle, only to find that they didn’t quite fit. Perhaps the damage was too bad. Perhaps now, after everything that had happened between them, there was no way forward. She had come to him, but what was he now? To her? To himself? He had welcomed her, but what was she now? To him? To herself? Who were they?

Christine Daaé had become Christine de Chagny.

The Phantom, the Angel, had been stripped back down to just Erik.

They didn’t know each other like this. They didn’t know each other with these different names, different circumstances. When all the smoke and mirrors disappeared, what was left behind?

Just them. A man crumbling beneath the hammer of life. A woman caught up in whirl after whirl of lies and broken promises. They were more than their experiences, and yet these experiences had moved them, misshapen them. The moulds were breaking, but beneath them, their skin was stained by the clay.

He took her by the hand and led her down the rest of the stairs, and it was so like the first time, so like when he’d first shown her his world. The cellar was nothing like that. It was small, too small, but it suited him as he was. He felt small. He felt too small.

How strange it was. Erik, a powerful man, a man who treated intimidation as an art form to perfect, felt _small_. It was as though life’s cruelties had finally become too much for him, as though he’d finally learned to allow himself to be crushed under the heavy boots of humanity.

He sat her on the piano bench and then he sat on the bed, too far from her, not far enough. It didn’t escape him just how inappropriate this was. A married woman in a tiny room with a beast in the middle of the night. She was in her nightgown, and he in his shirtsleeves. How would her precious Vicomte react if he saw them now? He would be appalled. He would faint. Erik half-wished he _were_ here, just so he could see the foolish boy’s pathetic reaction. Aristocrats had weak blood. Even now, after letting her go, after allowing Raoul de Chagny to be come her new protector, Erik would love to see that blood spill.

But no. Christine was one of them now. Christine had left the world of night, the world of torturous pain and wondrous music, and climbed up onto the altar of high society. Erik thought aristocrats had weak blood, thought it would amuse him to see that blood spilled, but it was Christine’s blood that served as the sacrifice. She had sold her soul to bureaucracy. And still, _still_ , she found herself crawling back like a dog whining for its master.

Cruel. Too cruel. _You can’t think of her like that_. Not when it was the complete opposite, not when he was the one howling, manipulating her into coming to him so that she could give him one final pat on the head. 

_Good dog. Now play dead_.

There was something so darkly thrilling about seeing her here, in this cellar with him, so under-dressed it bordered on obscene. It was the same thrill as the first time, only this time, there was something else there, too. He wasn’t darkly powerful now. He had lost all his power, lost all his mysticism and magic. Now he was just a man, and she just a woman, and he hadn’t felt so vulnerable for a long time.

He wished she was just angry at him, wished she’d come here just to berate him. He wished she would stand up and scream at him, shout at him, insult him. It was so much easier to deal with. He was used to that, he understood that. But it wasn’t really what he wanted, was it? It wasn’t really what either of them wanted.

He’d hurt her. He’d manipulated her. He’d done horrible things. And yet she didn’t loathe him for this sin, didn’t hate him at all. The anger was a confusing buzz around them, barely there at all, as murky as muddied waters. 

_You’re not alone_ , she had told him once.

He understood it now. She was the same. Here they were, a confusing mess of desire they didn’t understand, love they could barely admit and would never properly be able to express. The love he had for her was destructive. The confused admiration she had for him was toxic. Theirs was a love that could never be - not without casualties. And what greater casualties than they themselves? Because ultimately, he thought, he knew, they would suffer the most. Perhaps she knew that, too. Perhaps that was why she’d come so late to find him. 

_This is too strange. This is all too strange_.

Neither of them spoke for a while. They just stared at each other, taking in the sight of the other, changed. Christine looked older, more mature. Instead of that pure look of an ingénue about her, there was knowing in her eyes. Those eyes had become haunted and lost. There was no innocence there, just desperate sadness: eyes that had known tears. She even held herself differently. There was a boldness in the set of her shoulders, a self-contained confidence that he admired, he had to admire. She looked like the sort of woman who was sad but knew and accepted it, carrying that sadness on her shoulders like Atlas carried the world.

What changes did she see in him, he wondered, sitting as he was with his hands folded in his lap and his back slightly curved as if to protect himself? Did he see age in his face, in his shoulders? Did she see innocence in his eyes, childlike naivety he had expressed to her just before she left the last time? Or did she see the cruel nightmare who had possessed her, the ruiner of dreams, the destroyer of all that purity? Did she sense sin in him? Did she envy it?

There they sat, Erik and Christine, gazing at each other as though unsure what to say, what to do. Christine was, perhaps subconsciously, mimicking his posture. She hunched ever so slightly, her hands safely trapped between her knees. He sat like a child. She sat like him.

Finally, softly, he said, “It’s good to see you.”

She stared at him in amazement, as though completely baffled by the words. He didn’t blame her. He felt rather surprised himself. _It’s good to see you_? He may as well have said _I know the last time we saw each other I kidnapped you, tried to force you to marry me, and threatened to kill your lover, but what do you think of the weather?_

Slowly, as if in a dream, she answered, “Yes. It’s good to see you, too.”

It was as if they had both been replaced by strange, mechanical creatures. They were made of clockwork, but they were both missing springs. It was so surreal, so strange, so utterly bizarre. It suited them well, then.

“So,” said Christine. “How long have you been hiding here?”

“Ever since…” He shrugged helplessly. “You know.”

“Oh.”

It was awkward. It was awkward and uncomfortable, so dreadfully _odd_ that Erik wanted to turn away from her and hide, bury his head in his bedsheets and hope she would just disappear.

But he also couldn’t stop staring at her. He drank her in, greedy for her, and memorised every part of her.

“I’m sorry,” she said abruptly. And then blinked. She looked almost surprised, as though she hadn’t intended to actually say it.

He frowned. “Whatever for?”

“For everything,” she said, looking away. “I didn’t intend…well…”

“I told you to go,” he said, making his voice as soft as possible. “I don’t blame you for anything, Christine. Nothing at all.”

Her cheeks flushed, and when she next looked at him, it was from under her eyelashes. “This is no life for you. You don’t deserve this.”

“My dear,” he murmured, “I made my peace with my fate a long time ago. I have no use for your pity.”

He said it gently, but she seemed upset all the same, shifting as though uncomfortable in her own skin.

“What are you going to do?” she asked. “Where will you go? After?”

_After the police forget you_.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. 

What else could he say? He couldn’t tell her any more than that. He didn’t know what he would do or where he would go. He only knew that when it was safe to leave, he would travel far, far away and he would live out the rest of his days in solitude. He would get as far away from her as possible to help him forget her, to help him let her go at last. And then he would let himself die.

“It will be better for you,” she said, as if comforting a child. “When you’re free.”

He didn’t even dignify that with a response. Free? He could never be free. Perhaps the cage the world had thrown in him was now more metaphorical, but it was still there. There would be no freedom for men like him. Demons and devils didn’t get to blow out the flames of Hell like candles.

This was painful. Much more painful than he’d expected it to be. Seeing her, being so near to her, hearing her voice speak like this…it was making him want to run away, making him want to run towards her. He wanted her to wrap her arms around him and hold him and tell him he was loved. He wanted her to leave. He wanted so much, and he’d have nothing. 

_Foolish. Did you really think she would come back and somehow forget her husband? Don’t be stupid!_

At least he knew she was safe. That was the entire purpose of this, after all. To see her safe and well, to know she was going to be all right without him to help her. 

But was she? Her eyes were so sad. So old. Marriage had aged her.

When she sighed, she sighed with her whole body.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” she confessed. “Ever since I left, you’re all I think about.”

_What?_

The revelation stunned him into silence. He could only stare at her in shock, the words repeating in his head like a monkey playing cymbals on repeat. _Ever since I left, you’re all I think about._

That was it, wasn’t it? The reason he couldn’t live properly without her. Because she was a part of him, and he her. They were one and the same, torn to shreds by a life of cruel circumstance.

_You’re all I think about_ , she’d said.

_Oh, Christine, don’t you see? That’s why this is all wrong._

Obsession. It wasn’t love. It was obsession.

Maybe it was the same thing. Maybe love was never simple.

“I missed you. I missed you so much,” she told him. Where had this sudden boldness come from? “I tried to come back to Paris, but I couldn’t. And then…then I could.”

“Then you could,” he echoed blankly.

“I…last night, when I tried to come to you, when you called to me…Madame Giry said a name. But I don’t know whether it’s yours.”

She seemed too shy to say it, looking down at her hands and clearing her throat. And suddenly, desperately, he needed her to say it.

“Christine,” he murmured.

She looked up at him from under her long cow’s eyelashes. “Erik.”

There it was: his name, his _name_. He was perceived. He was known. _Erik_. He was known. He existed outside of his own head, existed outside of his monikers. _Erik_. The Phantom was merely a palimpsest of identities, and beneath all those layers was that scared little boy who just wanted to be touched, kissed, loved. Understood. Because wasn’t understanding the highest form of love? She knew him, she apprehended him, she understood him so completely. She peeled back his masks like she’d ripped off his physical mask. She saw who he was beneath. She recognised the boy who had never been allowed to become a man.

“Erik,” she said again, as if testing his name, tasting it.

“Christine,” he said, and it was half a whine, an animal’s cry. A plea.

He didn’t even notice her standing up, didn’t notice her crossing the room. One moment she was too far away, sitting calmly at his piano. The next she was right in front of him, her hands cupping his face, her eyes staring down into his with such intensity, he could hardly stand to look. But he did. Because Christine was here. His beloved darling beautiful angelic _Christine_. And he finally felt complete. He finally felt alive again.

She leaned down, her face so close to his that he could feel her breath on his skin, could practically _taste_ it. She smelled of roses and daylight. He breathed her in like he was breathing in the air.

She moved closer, her lips mere inches from his. She was going to kiss him, he realised. She had come here, a thief in the night, and she was going to kiss him in his dark cellar, she who smelled of sunshine and looked like the living, breathing waves of the sea. The goddess of life wanted to kiss the demon of death. The irony made him want to laugh. It made him want to cry.

He wanted her to kiss him.

And that was exactly why she shouldn’t.

She closed her eyes. Her lips brushed against his, a feather-touch, too much, not enough, and his soul sang and his heart sobbed and oh, God, he couldn’t do it, he just couldn’t.

He caught her wrists in his hands and gently pushed her away.

Christine gazed at him in amazement. Her face was hurt, pained, and he immediately wanted to pull her back towards him, wanted to kiss that pain away, wanted so much so badly that it was overwhelming.

But he didn’t. He held her away from him and tried to ignore the agony her pain caused him.

“Erik?” she questioned.

He looked up at her grimly. And said a word he’d never imagined saying to her. “ _No_.”

He couldn’t stand the way she was looking at him. He released her wrists, stood up, and escaped her. He crossed the room so he could lean against the wall farthest away from her, his breathing coming in short, desperate gasps.

“What?” Christine sounded absolutely horrified. Had she ever expected to be denied? He’d never expected to deny her.

But he had to. He had to, because the pain was too much for him to bear.

Erik was intimate friends with pain. It had accompanied him everywhere, nestling inside him like a cat nestling in its owners’ arms.

He would not take on more pain deliberately, knowingly. He would not let it beat him to the ground; he would not let it smash him to pieces like a hammer to a mirror.

Christine had straightened, turned to face him, and _God_ , he wished she’d stop looking at him like that. For a moment, just a moment, he hated her, despised her confusion. Why was his rejection so hard to believe? Why did she insist on hurting him so much, over and over again?

And then she whispered, “Angel?” and his anger dissipated at once.

_She still thinks you’re her Angel of Music, does she?_ that horrible voice at the back of his head hissed. _Foolish child. Cruel woman. And look at you, pathetic monster. Cowering before her!_

Breathing heavily, Erik said in a voice curt even to his ears: “Why are you here, Christine?”

She flinched as if he’d struck her. His heart racing, he forced himself to stare at the floor, refused to allow himself the pleasurable pain of seeing her. The floor gave him courage. It gave him the strength he needed to deny her. 

“I…don’t know,” she said.

“Why?” he said again. It wouldn’t stand. It wouldn’t. They both knew why she was here. She just didn’t want to admit it.

She didn’t say anything for a while. Deliberating, he thought.

But then she said, “Because I’m confused. And I need guidance.”

“Then go to a church,” he said coldly. “I am not your priest and I am not your conscience.”

“My confusion isn’t something that can be taken to a priest,” she said. Her voice shook. “They would never understand. Only one person understands, and he’s standing in front of me.”

He didn’t say anything. What could he say?

_I love you._

_Stay with me._

_I love you, stay with me, I love you, don’t ever leave again, I need you, oh God, Christine, you are everything to me and I need you I need you I need -_

It wouldn’t do. None of this would do. She had to go, she had to leave. It had been foolish to give in to that addiction, it had been foolish to lure her here like a monster luring a virgin to his sacrificial lair. It had been _cruel_ , cruel for both of them.

“I can’t sing,” she confessed. “It’s like the music has just…died. I don’t know what to do. I need your help. I need you to help me find my voice again.”

“Why?” he asked. There was no coldness to his tone now. He just sounded resigned. “Why do you need it?”

“How can you even ask that?” she asked. She was crying, he realised. He could hear it in her voice. Perhaps all of the grief she’d carried over the years was finally collapsing like a building on top of her, crushing her beneath its cold, cold weight. “Music is everything to me. Music has always been everything to me. You of all people should understand that.”

“Me of all people?” he repeated.

Finally, finally, he turned to face her. He’d been right; she was crying. She looked stricken with pain, with grief. It was like a thousand vultures were circling around her.

“Music is in your soul,” she said. “Music is in my soul, too.”

Yes. Yes, it was. Their souls sang the same song; they matched, they matched, they matched. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough for their music to align, because nothing else did. She was a woman of light, of the water and air. He was a man of darkness, of the underground. She lived. He had been born six feet deep beneath the soil.

Before he could stop himself, his eyes travelled up from the floor, meeting hers. The pain in her gaze matched his own.

_I’m sorry, dear Christine. I’m so sorry._

“Teach me again,” she begged. Yes, she was begging now. She was holding out her hands, ever the supplicant. Pretty hands. Delicate hands. “Please.”

But the flash of gold on her finger stopped him from listening. He grew cold, ever so cold, the passion falling away from him.

“You come to Paris with your Vicomte’s ring,” he said. His voice was dangerously soft. “You beg another man to _guide_ you. You stand above him and you try to curse him with a kiss. And all this time, you wear that ring.”

She just stared at him, her eyes so beautiful he wanted to die.

He softened. He had to soften. Because he no longer had it in him to be harsh to her, this vixen, this innocent.

“Christine,” he said softly. “Christine, please.”

“Erik,” she whispered. “Please listen to me.”

He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. He mustn’t.

She was approaching him again. Without even thinking, he tried to move away from her only to feel his back hit the wall behind him. He felt like a cornered animal, wide-eyed as she came to conquer him. He wanted to tell her to go away, to stay away, to leave, but the words just wouldn’t come. Christine advanced and Erik froze.

She stopped in front of him, too close, not close enough, and reached up to touch his face again. This time, he didn’t flinch. He felt numbed by shock, frozen in place as if she’d chained him against this wall, as if the Devil himself held his arms behind his back like a prisoner and forced him to endure.

To Erik, kindness was the cruellest punishment.

“Christine,” he breathed. “Christine, I can’t -”

“Hush,” she said. “Listen.”

She grabbed one of his hands, ignoring his sharp intake of breath, and slowly, so slowly, pressed his fingers against the pulse point on her throat. It was such a bizarre movement, a bizarre situation, and yet he was completely enthralled. Beneath his slender fingers, her pulse raced faster than the wings of a hummingbird. It was evidence of life. Proof that she was here, that she was real, that her heart thudded and thudded for _him_. There was music in it, a melody of mortality. It swam in his ears as though it were his own heartbeat.

“Do you hear?” Christine asked, and her voice was barely a whisper.

“Yes,” he breathed.

Her eyes never leaving his, Christine gently pressed her own fingers against his throat, feeling for his pulse. Her hand was warm and unfamiliar on his skin, but he didn’t move. He hardly dared to breathe.

It was so odd, but it was so overwhelmingly intimate that Erik felt tears stinging in his eyes.

“You can hear me and I can hear you,” Christine said.

He just stared at her. “I don’t understand,” he admitted, and it came out as a whisper.

“When I’m not here, when I’m away from you, the music disappears,” she said, and her voice was soft as clouds. “And when I’m with you, it comes back to me. Can you hear it?”

He listened. Her heartbeat sounded like a drumbeat, the constant tick of a clock. There was music in it. But he still didn’t understand, and he told her so.

“It’s rhythm,” she told him, as if she were the teacher and he the student. “You taught me to find music in everything. But when I’m away, I can’t find that rhythm, I can’t hear music. And when I’m here, even my heartbeat is like a song. Now do you understand?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered.

“Let me show you,” she said. “Please, just…just let me.”

Perhaps her words really did freeze him in place, because he was completely unable to move as she leaned up towards him. This time, when she pressed her lips against his in a trembling kiss, he didn’t stop her. He just stood there, uncertain, as still as stone. She kissed him very gently, very carefully, as if afraid that he would flinch away from her. Her lips barely moved. But with her pulse beneath him, with his beneath her, and her mouth on his, he felt full of her, completely full. He felt as if he’d fall apart at the seams, a doll with bad stitching. When she withdrew away from him, he felt desperately, achingly sad, as if a part of him had gone. 

“Do you see?” she asked.

He still didn’t understand. Did he see _what_?

But somehow it didn’t matter.

She leaned in to kiss him again, but this time he found his strength.

“Don’t,” he gasped. “Please don't.”

_Please have mercy. Please, please, please._

She stared at him, and again came that look of hurt on her beautiful face, the look that made him want to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness.

The Angel of Music had power over her. So too did the Phantom. But Erik? Erik was pathetic.

And Christine was cruel.

“Why not?” Christine asked.

He removed his hand from her neck, pulling hers away from his, too. And gently, ever so gently, he tapped the wedding ring on her finger.

“You ask too much of me,” he said. “I cannot allow you to cage me just to alleviate your own disappointment in your new life, Christine.”

And he stepped around her and away, suddenly feeling so small and so tired, he wanted to curl up on the floor and sleep. But Christine still stood there behind him, her expression now one of pure rejection. He knew without even looking at her. He’d hurt her.

“We don’t have to…I’m sorry, Erik. I let myself…” She took a deep breath, pausing as if struggling to find the words. “I didn’t mean to. I just…I don’t want to live without my Angel of Music. Without _you_. I don’t…please. You said before that I had much still to learn with my singing, and I…now I’m here and I’m asking you to teach me.”

But he couldn’t teach her. He couldn’t. Because she was clearly confused. Hurting because of her new life and how alienated she felt. So she was coming to him, thinking him to be some sort of familiar beast, and hoping he would sweep her up and save her from the life she’d chosen. But he couldn’t do that. It would be bad for both of them.

And so he clenched his fists and took a breath and tried to gather his courage.

“The answer is no.” And he added, an octave lower, as though he could hardly bear to hear it himself: “I’m sorry.”

“But why?” she asked. “Why is the answer no? Why won’t you teach me?”

He turned to face her, fixed her with an open, angular stare. “Because it’s cruel, Christine,” he said simply. “It’s cruel. You have a life out there. A husband, a life. An amazing life, a life many people would kill for.”

“It’s a soulless life!” she cried desperately. Her voice was shrill in the room, bouncing off the walls, the words assaulting his ears. “There’s nothing in it! Every day is the same. I can’t do it, Erik. I can’t. I don’t belong there.”

“You belong wherever you go,” he said. “Wherever you are, you belong, if you wish it. You don’t just gain belonging. You make it. Do you think I was born belonging to the Earth? No. I have made it that way. I’ve dug my own grave and now I lie in it and I wait.” He gestured around him to the cellar. “You were not born belonging in high society, but alas, you have pushed your way there. If you wrestle with it, fight it, you never _will_ belong. But if you try…”

“I have tried,” she said miserably. “You don’t - you’re not listening.”

“There’s nothing to listen to,” he said softly. “Christine. I let you go.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“You must.” 

He took several strides towards her, taking one of her hands in both of his. He stared down at her, an open, vulnerable look, a promise, empty.

“Go, Christine,” he said. “Find a new teacher. Find a new Angel.”

“But I don’t want anyone else,” she whispered.

The weight of her words was so heavy. It was an anchor, keeping them down. But being grounded by that anchor meant drowning in the waves, and she was drowning him, strange, innocent siren.

“I can’t teach you again,” he told her. “I can’t be there by your side. It’s too painful, don’t you see? You’re asking for my sacrifice. Christine. I’ve given it once. I cannot give it twice. You ask too much of me this time.”

He turned her hand over, leaned down, and planted a careful kiss in the centre of her palm. Then he closed her fingers around it and kissed the knuckles, one by one. He looked up. They were both crying now, two dratted, pitiful creatures.

“Use these to feed your song,” he said.

“Angel…”

But he’d already let go, already moved back from her. He turned on her. He couldn’t look at her now. He just couldn’t.

“Go,” he said, and his voice trembled even more than his hands. “ _Please_.”

She didn’t. She just stood there, silently staring at him, sniffling.

And then she whispered, “Do you really hate me so much?”

It was a good question, one he didn’t really know how to answer. Did he hate her? No. Yes. Maybe. He hated that he was so attached to her. He hated that he couldn’t break the ties that bound him to her. He hated that he was the one who had put them there in the first place.

Perhaps it wasn’t her he hated, but himself.

Or perhaps it was both. He hated her because he loved her.

He loved her too much. That was the problem. He loved her, and finally, he had begun to learn that that was why he must let her go.

Still, he found himself saying, “No. I don’t hate you.”

“You know I would have stayed,” Christine said, and her voice was so small, so vulnerable, that he wanted to sweep her into his arms and protect her from the world, hide her away with him to make sure she remained safe.

But she was safe without him. Safer.

“I would have stayed with you. But I couldn’t.” 

He bowed his head. “I know,” he said softly. “I understand.” 

“But now I can,” she said. “I was…I was foolish then. I needed time. And I’ve had time and I understand myself more and I…I understand you, too. Erik. The world is so pale without music. I miss it so much. I ask only that you help me find it again. And then I’ll let you go. I promise.” 

She sounded like a girl talking to her lover. _Let’s run away. Let’s go somewhere, anywhere but here. Let’s leave everything and everyone behind and let’s just stay with each other_. 

“That’s even worse,” he heard himself, as if from afar, say. 

And it was. She begged him for his services now, as if he really was a tutor she could just pay and move on with her life. 

“Erik,” Christine whispered. “Please don’t send me away. Can’t you…can’t you at least think about it? Won’t you just consider helping me?” 

He sighed. She was actually grovelling. Grovelling, as if he were La Carlotta and she one of those foolish managers. A part of him, a much darker part, felt almost thrilled by it. Christine de Chagny, Vicomtesse. Begging. But the rest of him? The rest of him felt disgust and shame. He was a vile beast, was he not? Taking pleasure from her misery, finding satisfaction, as if it was some great reassurance that she, too, suffered, that it wasn’t just him alone in the dark.

She shouldn’t have to beg. He should help her. She was desperate and he was denying her, over and over again. It was cruel of him, so cruel, to reject the woman he loved in this manner. But he had to protect himself, didn’t he? And this was protecting himself, saying no when really all he wanted to say was _Yes_.

But he wanted to protect her, too.

He wanted to protect her more.

He felt all his courage slip away. Cowardice crept in like guilt, like helplessness, possessing him and bringing him down to his knees once more. 

He barely registered it when the word, “Fine” passed through his teeth. And he barely realised what he had agreed to until he felt arms slithering like snakes around him, and he realised with a start that Christine was _hugging him_. Awkwardly, he turned around in her arms so that he could return the hug, even if it did set his heartbeat into an unsteady, drunken waltz. 

“Thank you,” she breathed into his chest. “Thank you.” 

“I said I would _consider_ it,” he protested quickly. 

“I know, I know.” She released him - thank God, he didn’t think he’d be able to deal with much more of that physical contact - and when she smiled, he had to avert his eyes.

“Now _go_ ,” he said roughly. “You’ve done quite enough for one night.”

She seemed hurt by that. “I’m sorry.”

He said nothing. He needed her to go. He needed some time alone, needed to understand the jumbled mess of his thoughts. He wanted desperately to play some music, try and process all that had happened.

But before she left, she reached out as if to touch his hand. When he flinched away, she thought better of it, withdrawing into herself as though ashamed.

“Christine?” he questioned. 

She just shook her head, and when she smiled, it seemed almost sad. “Consider it,” she reminded him. 

And then she was gone and he was left to turn and face his regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *deep breath* okay here it is. Their first face-to-face meeting. You guys have no idea how nervous I am to post this. 
> 
> Title is taken from The Cardigans song "And Then You Kissed Me".
> 
> Okay, I'm off to go hide now. Hope this is adequate x


	11. Chapter Eleven: Lord Death Takes No Visitors

Her mind buzzed. She could barely keep still. It was as though her whole being was possessed by a sudden, unidentifiable need, her mind racing, her heartbeat pounding.

He hadn’t said yes. He wasn’t definitely coming to Rouen with her; she didn’t definitely have her Angel back. But there was no definite _no_ , either. And despite the likelihood that it would still be a no once he’d had time to think about it without her constantly pushing and pushing and pushing, she couldn’t help but feel like she’d won some kind of game. She had been in such pain, trapped in such an empty, sad void ever since she’d left Paris, and now, finally, the thing that had been missing was returning to her. She had seen him, she had spoken to him, she had kissed his malformed lips and he’d _let_ her.

And she finally had a name.

She felt like a wicked fae queen sealing an ungodly contract. She had his name, and somehow, somehow, it made him less frightening, less intimidating. It made him human. And it meant he was within reach.

Erik. It was a beautiful name. It was an ugly name. It was too harsh. It was too soft. It was too normal and it was too strange. It suited him. It tasted good when she said it. _Erik, Erik, Erik_. She thought of it like a prayer, and she didn’t care if it was sacrilegious. She didn’t care about anything anymore. She felt like she was floating, like there was nothing anchoring her to this earthly plane any longer - nothing except Erik.

She sat before the cold fireplace, her mind abuzz, and she thought of what had happened in the cellar.

She hadn’t exactly expected it to go that way, and she’d imagined how it would be if she met him again what felt like a thousand times. She’d imagined they would embrace each other, clutching at each other, apologise profusely and discuss what had happened between them. She’d imagined they would shout at each other, hate each other, insult each other because of what had happened. But they’d done neither. Instead, it had been dreadfully awkward and then not awkward at all. Their meeting had caused more heartbreak, and yet somehow, this was the heartbreak she needed, the heartbreak she craved. Nothing would ever be simple between them. That was just a fact. Their relationship was the most complicated thing Christine had ever experienced, and perhaps it always had been and perhaps it always would be. Their meeting hadn’t been anything like she’d imagined, and she’d gone through so many scenarios in her head. But somehow, she was glad for it. It wasn’t simple. It was theirs. It was their reunion, and if it had hurt her, if it had hurt him, then that was just part of this strange dance they had.

No. She didn’t really believe that. As her mind began to steady, as her heartbeat began to slow down to a normal speed, she started to calm down. And calming down came with enough guilt to last her a lifetime.

She hadn’t expected it to go that way. She hadn’t come here intending to kiss him, and it wasn’t at all fair that she had. She hadn’t intended to get so close to him. But she’d forgotten how intense all those feelings were, and they shook her with the terrible force of an earthquake. It had taken one look at him to make her realise that she would never, ever be able to move on away from him. And, God forgive her, perhaps she’d known that all along.

Her love for Raoul was simple; her love for Erik never could be. So why was she so desperately certain that she’d married the wrong man?

Maybe she shouldn’t have returned to Paris. 

She’d come here for answers. Now all she had was more questions.

Her momentary happiness seemed to vanish faster than it had come, leaving her as cold as the dead coal in the fireplace, filthy with soot as she began to process what had just happened. Would she ever be able to forget the look in his eyes, that look of vulnerability and ancient sorrow too old for him? It wasn’t his face that frightened her, wasn’t his mask or his dangerous nature. It wasn’t even the fact that she knew he had killed. The thing that frightened her the most about him was that sadness. It clung to him, vines curling around his body and holding him captive, and no matter how hard she tried to free him from the thorns, he remained trapped.

_Oh, Erik._

How could she fix it? How could she cut the vines away from him? How could she help him when all she seemed able to do was cause more pain?

And Raoul. God, Raoul. What had she done?

Despite her momentary happiness, she was suddenly reminded of just how heavy guilt could be. It weighed down on her, serving her as a meal to the reaching flames of Hell. _Adulteress. Vixen. Terrible, terrible, terrible._

She had come to Erik to confess her sins, only to commit more and more and more. She’d committed adultery a thousand times in her mind, yearning for her Angel, yearning for more than he would ever be able to give her, and now she was here and she’d actually done it. She had betrayed her husband. 

_How could you? _the little voice at the back of her head mocked and scorned. _After everything he’s done for you, after everything you’ve put him through - how could you do this to him now? How could you betray him like this?___

____

____

He’d been nothing but supportive and yet here she was, in Paris, sneaking under the wing of an Angel she’d sworn to abandon.

It wasn’t a betrayal, was it? Not really. Raoul was well aware of her confusion, of her befuddled feelings about their marriage and about her experiences in the opera house. They had gone through horrible things together. He had to know she couldn’t just forget them. It didn’t work like that.

Or perhaps it did. Perhaps it was supposed to. Perhaps she wasn’t supposed to think of Erik; perhaps she had already committed a crime just by clinging onto the past the way she had done ever since leaving with Raoul.

All of the happiness, all of the relief and feelings of wholeness, disappeared. She felt like the energy had suddenly been sucked out of her, as though someone was stealing from her mind and heart, taking up all her love and feasting upon it like demons. What was she? What had she become? And what was she _doing_?

She desperately needed guidance, but the only man she wanted to give it to her was downstairs and had sent her away. 

_I am not your priest and I am not your conscience_ , he’d said.

The words still made her shiver, they were so cold. And yet it was true. She wanted to use him as some kind of priest, as the star leading the shepards. She wanted him to lead her, wanted him to tell her what to do and what to feel and what to hear when she turned her ear out for the music. But he wasn’t an Angel. He was not her mentor. He was just a man. Just a frightened, hurting man, and she was pushing him and pushing him and pushing him.

The roles had reversed.

She’d said to him once, weeping and snivelling: _Please stop pushing me! I can’t take it anymore!_

And she could remember his reply, could hear it so clearly he could have been standing before her saying it. _If you cannot work under pressure, what use are you to me? You must push yourself to your limits and push yourself past them. Your true potential is not hiding behind those childish tears._

He had pushed her as her mentor.

She pushed him as his love. And it wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. She had left with Raoul as he’d told her to, as Raoul had wanted her to. She had tried her very best to make Raoul happy, struggling with societal expectations, trying to force herself to belong in a place she simply didn’t, all to be a good wife to him. And yet, that was all ruined. Because now she was intruding upon her best friend’s home to kiss a man she’d left for his own good, betraying her husband and bringing back all of Erik’s pain. Using it against him. Using his love for her as a weapon.

She sat back in her chair, slumping. For once, she didn’t cry. She didn’t think she could, even if she tried. She just sat there, staring into the cold fireplace, the embers dead and gone.

Was she a bad person? Was she evil? What was wrong with her?

She spent so long blaming other people. Raoul didn’t understand her, Erik had tricked her, her father had abandoned her to be with the real angels. But was she really so innocent? She was confused and upset because of the confusion Erik had caused her, and yet was she not just as wicked? She’d confused him, too. 

Suddenly, the problems she’d sought to fix had multiplied, and she found that there was no longer any way she could untangle the webs she’d accidentally wrapped around herself. When had her life become so complicated? She had gone from being an orphaned dancer to an opera singer to a reluctant bride. What was she now? She was everything. She was nothing.

She found herself thinking, as she often did when she was worried and alone, about her father. She missed him. Everyone had told her when he died that the pain would one day go away, but that hadn’t happened at all. Whenever she thought of him, it was to find a new wave of pain, fresh and difficult and horrible.

What would he say to her if he was here? What would he tell her to do?

She imagined him sitting beside her, holding her close.

_Oh, pappa_ , she would say with a heavy sigh. _I think I’ve done something horrible. I think I’ve made such a huge mistake coming here._

_Do you feel it is a mistake?_

she imagined him saying, his lilting voice comforting even if it was just in her own mind.

_I don’t know._

_Then it isn’t. If something is wrong, you will know, min älskling. It is the same for things that are right. You will feel it inside. What does your heart tell you?_

_I don’t know_ , she thought again. _I’m confused._

_Confusion is human._

She pondered this. Thought on it, mulled over it. _Confusion is human_. Perhaps her father, or her own mind, was right. Perhaps confusion was just the human condition.

Her mind went back to the cellar. How did he feel about all of this? Did he feel like her - hurt, confused, guilty? Or did he feel something else? Was he happy about it? Relieved? Angry?

She wouldn’t blame him. She really, truly wouldn’t.

She slouched even further, her head resting against the back of the seat, and closed her eyes. Just for a moment, she told herself. Just for a second.

She thought of her dream a few weeks ago, when she’d sat beside Erik under a tree overlooking Paris. She’d memorised every bit of it.

_You let the music in, let it overtake and become you, and then you allowed it to be stripped away._

And now she had returned to it. The music. _Him_. It had been stripped away. He had been stripped away. And now she had returned to him and it had all changed. It wasn’t him being stripped away now, by stupid decisions and foolish choices. She was being stripped away by his own worries and concerns, his own caution. And it hurt. It hurt so much more.

Her mind continued to drift. Eventually, she fell into a strange state of half-sleep. She dreamt she was sitting in the chair beside the fireplace, as she was in reality, but the flames were high. Too high. They were leaking out, the heat reaching for her, snatching at the hem of her nightgown. The flames spoke to her in a deep, sombre voice, a voice she knew, the voice of a stranger. 

_No need to scream, no need to run. This won’t hurt._

She gasped, struggling away, but the flames had burst out of the fireplace now and were reaching for her, red hands intent on dragging her away.

And then she felt a hand on her shoulder, and she was dragged out of the strange half-dream into the waking world.

Meg’s face stared down at her. She wasn’t dressed either, and by the look of the dark rings under her eyes and the mess of her hair, she’d only just woken up. She seemed concerned, and as Christine blinked herself into wakefulness, she realised it was still dark.

“Are you all right?” Meg asked.

Christine stared at her. “Yes,” she lied.

But she couldn’t lie to Meg. They knew each other too well.

Meg raised an eyebrow in response. “You went into the cellar, didn’t you?”

Christine sighed. She wasn’t sure whether she was more frustrated or relieved that Meg could read her so well. She concluded that it was a mix of both.

“Yes,” she admitted. And then added, dryly: “You were right. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many boxes and crates in my life.”

Meg paled. 

“Strange, though,” Christine continued. “Some of them looked almost like that Phantom from the opera house.”

Meg sighed, and it was a heavy sound, too heavy for her. "So you know."

"I know," Christine agreed.

"I suppose you have questions about it all. About him.”

Christine just shrugged. She wasn’t too surprised. She hadn’t considered that Erik could be in Meg’s home when she’d come here, but now that she thought about it, it did make a lot of sense. For whatever reason, Erik seemed close to Madame Giry. If it was Meg who needed help, needed protection, Christine wouldn’t even hesitate before offering it and doing everything she could, even if this meant putting herself at risk. It wouldn’t matter what Meg had done. Christine would always help her. Perhaps Madame Giry’s relationship with Erik was the same.

“I can explain it,” Meg said. “Everything.”

Christine glanced away from her. Was Erik listening, she wondered? Was he standing behind that cellar door, listening in to everything they said? Would it upset him, she wondered, if he was eavesdropping and happened to hear Meg telling Christine everything?

Just in case, she suggested that they go to Meg’s room.

So they did. They sat on Meg’s bed, the door closed so that Madame Giry didn’t overhear, and Meg explained everything.

“How did you even find him?” Christine asked. “Where even was he?”

Meg shook her head. Her face was grim. “He wasn’t very well, Christine. When we found him. He was in one of those alleyways - he crawled through the tunnels.”

It hurt just to imagine it. Her Angel, crawling like an injured dog, his face an open wound and his heart a broken punishment.

Christine rubbed at her arm uselessly, but if she seemed uncomfortable, Meg either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“I went down there to find you, you know, when he took you away,” Meg continued. “Mother told me not to but…”

But Meg never listened to her mother unless she really believed it was the right thing to do.

“I found his mask,” Meg said. “And then my mother found me and told me to go with her. She said they were all looking for him, they were all going to kill him. She told me he’d let you go - I don’t know how she knew.”

“We saw her,” Christine remembered. “Raoul and I. When we were leaving. She told us to go as far away as we could.”

She’d asked Madame Giry - she remembered - _Don’t let them kill him. Please_. And she supposed Madame Giry had listened, because now he was in her cellar, safe and well. Or about as well as someone like him could be.

“So we did,” Christine said. “We went to stay with Raoul’s family.”

“I know,” said Meg.

Of course she knew. Christine had told her so in her letters.

“And Erik?” Christine asked. It still felt strange saying that name out loud, especially to Meg. It felt like a secret, a sweet nothing only for Christine and Erik themselves. “What…what was he like?”

She didn’t think she really wanted to know. But at the same time, she had to. She had to know what she’d done to him. She had to know what state she’d left him in.

Meg just sighed. “I’m sure you can imagine.”

She _could_ imagine. When she’d sat on his piano bench in that dingy cellar, she’d noticed just how hurt he looked, all that horrible, overhwelming pain that made her want to hold him and flee from him at the same time. It was the kind of pain that echoed, the kind of pain that bounced off every wall in a room and infected every person in there. It was the kind of pain that burrowed inside, festering like a rotting thing, seeping into the very marrow of the bones. 

With pain like that, it was so difficult to remember that that man was dangerous, that that man could kill and had killed. With pain like that, it wasn’t so difficult to imagine what had driven him to it. Christine just couldn’t find it in her to be afraid of him anymore. He didn’t frighten her because she had seen past his masks, past his walls, to the terrified, hurting man beneath, and she knew that hurt, had felt it herself.

She had seen pain, so much pain, in those haunting, mismatched eyes. And yet she’d never imagined just how much more pain he could feel, just how much more she could cause him. Sitting before him in that cellar, watching him hunch over as though trying to protect himself from her, she had seen the horrors he’d faced, the terror he’d endured, and she had understood.

He needed her. That’s why he didn’t want her. She was no fool, a child no longer; she had aged a thousand years during her time at the opera house, during her time with Raoul, and she really was beginning to understand the man behind the mask.

He had turned her away because he needed her and it frightened him. 

And she knew that because she felt the same way about him.

“And…how is he?” Christine asked tentatively. 

She knew how he was, but she also didn’t. Despite how violently she tore down his defences, Erik was still an excellent actor. He had learned to use his masks, not just to hide his face, but to hide his reactions, too. To hide his true feelings. Usually, Christine could see through that, but she highly doubted he would let her in now. She didn’t know how he really was. But perhaps Meg did.

“He’s getting better,” Meg said. But there was a look in her eyes, as though this was the only positive she could think of. “He’s been worried, too. About you. Because of the letters not coming through. He was worried you were being watched.”

Christine swallowed. How did he _know_? Was he aware that he, too, was probably being watched? Perhaps by the same people? If he was worried about her, he would have to know, surely? Perhaps that was why he didn’t want to come to Rouen. Perhaps he was trying to protect her, keeping her away from him, knowing there were people intent on seeing him hang. If they knew how deeply Christine was involved, she’d hang, too. So would Meg. So would Madame Giry. 

Not for the first time, Christine felt an intense wave of grief wash over her. She grieved for a man she’d never known. She grieved for the possibility of a man. Because that was what he was, what he’d made of himself. He’d turned himself into an idea. And now, with all those ideas dead and buried, there wasn’t much of him left.

Christine felt a strange urge to protect him, to save him. But what was he now? What was there left to save?

“I don’t know what _Maman_ is going to do,” Meg confessed. “But I don’t think she’ll let him stay here for long.”

“She wouldn’t just tell him to leave, would she?” Christine asked, her heart dropping at the very thought.

“No, no,” Meg said quickly. “She would never. He’s one of us now. He isn’t just a lodger, Christine. He’s our friend.”

She said it fiercely, her cheeks slightly pink, as though there was some great shame or indiscretion at admitting such a thing.

Christine blinked. What had he done to deserve the Girys’ loyalty? 

He had been Christine’s Angel of Music. He had brought her joy, comforted her when she was upset, praised and scolded her, educated her, forced her to confront the workings of her soul and come to understand them. He had been everything to her. A teacher, a father, a friend, a lover. However complicated and twisted her feelings for her were, they were also understandable.

But what had he done for Madame Giry and Meg?

“Did he speak to you?” Meg asked, breaking into Christine’s spiralling thoughts. “When you went down there?”

Christine swallowed. “Well, yes.”

She considered it. Should she tell her what had been said? What had happened? 

Of course she should. Meg was her friend. And she trusted Christine enough to tell her about how they’d found Erik. Christine owed her the same courtesy, surely?

So she told her.

It felt good, getting everything off her chest. Christine told Meg everything. How Erik had sung to her, how she’d decided to sneak out that evening to go and see him in the cellar. She told her about their conversation, her proposition, even the kiss. Meg listened without interrupting, always such a good listener, and when Christine had finished, Meg just shook her head.

“I should have known it would be a bad idea,” Meg sighed, “putting you two back together.”

Christine frowned, but didn’t say anything. Perhaps Meg was right. Perhaps it was a bad idea. Perhaps they were just bad for each other, and this was the final confirmation, the last piece of a puzzle Christine had been struggling to come to terms with for months.

But she knew it wasn’t true. Because when she was with Erik, everything felt _right_. It felt wrong, too. But it felt like it was meant to be, like the wrongness of it was somehow necessary. And yet, whenever she thought that, that old guilt would come back, and she’d berate herself for her cruel selfishness. She was hurting Raoul by thinking like that, even if he was ignorant to it. She was hurting him by poisoning the relationship, by so much as thinking of another man. Bad wife. 

But how was she bad? For having feelings? Why was that bad? _Why_?

“How do you feel about it, Christine?” asked Meg.

“I don’t know,” Christine confessed. “Confused.” She paused. “I think he is confused, too.”

“I would imagine so,” Meg agreed. 

She sat there in silence for a few moments, her hands in her lap, her teeth chewing at her bottom lip. She was deep in thought; Christine could practically see the cogs turning in her head.

Then she said, “Do you think maybe it’s a bad idea? Asking him to go to Rouen with you to teach you? You can’t exactly hide that from your husband, and besides, it’s dangerous for him to leave the house.”

Christine could have wept. But strangely, she didn’t seem able to. Her eyes were dry. She just felt tired, as though all of the events of the past few months had finally begun to crumble around her. She felt _old_.

“Do you think it’s selfish?” Christine asked. Blunt, to the point, but it didn’t matter anymore. She was sick of smoke and mirrors.

“I think you’re both hurting,” Meg said honestly. “And sometimes, pain makes us do foolish things.”

“You think it’s foolish?”

“To come all the way to Paris to find someone you left in a cellar? Yes, Christine, I would say that’s rather foolish.”

She sounded so much like her mother that Christine almost laughed, and would have done if the situation wasn’t so depressingly tiresome.

“I don’t think I can let him go,” Christine admitted.

How strange it was. She’d always feared that he would never let her go. And yet here she was. It was her, not him, who had come crawling back, desperate for understanding, desperate to see him again. He had let her go. She had wanted him to. And now she resented him for it.

Meg covered one of Christine’s hands with one of her own. When she looked at her, her eyes were more earnest than Christine had ever seen them.

“Maybe it isn’t about letting go, Christine,” she said softly. “He was important to you. He still is. You don’t have to let him go. You just have to move forward.”

“And leave him in the past?” Christine asked.

Was that really what she should do?

“That isn’t for me to say,” Meg said. “But maybe I’m not the person you should be speaking to about this.”

Christine bowed her head. Shame, thick and heavy, laid its filthy hands on her breaking innocence. She was a mirror, cracking, splitting. And perhaps she was a mirror of what she had once been, or perhaps she was a mirror of Erik, but it no longer mattered. She just felt so tired. She wanted to sleep, and she wanted to stay awake forever. She’d given her soul away, and now she’d come back to reclaim it only to find that it no longer fit in her body. Everything Erik touched rotted and decayed. But Christine no longer minded. She would rot and decay if it meant she could belong in his garden. But he no longer wanted her there, and that hurt more than anything else in the world.

As they sat there, the hours ticked by like minutes. Christine thought and thought and thought, turning everything over and over in her mind. But by the time morning came, she was just as confused as she has been when she'd first arrived in Paris, perhaps even more so. She'd never considered that Erik wouldn't drop everything to tutor her again. She had come to Paris with a purpose. And now she was just as lost as she had been when she'd first left him. 

_I wish you would find me_ , she thought, as if somehow he could hear her. _I wish you would bring me home._

She'd spent a lifetime looking for a home. She'd thought it was Paris. But it wasn't; she knew that now.

_He_ was home.

But that hardly mattered now. To her, he was home. To him, she was a prison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, this is a bit of a slow filler chapter. My god, I really write Christine as an overthinker yikes
> 
> I'm also sorry it's a bit later than usual - this one was just so hard to write. The next chapter will be more plot and action-focused.
> 
> Anyway, as always, a big thank you for all your support x


	12. Chapter Twelve: Escape

Christine didn’t return to the cellar for several days, and Erik didn’t dare go upstairs to seek her out. Instead, he just sat alone, hands still in his lap, eyes glazed over, and thought through all the reasons he loved her and all the reasons he wasn’t supposed to.

It didn’t help. If anything, it just made him more inclined to throw himself into a river and let the water take him.

He wished he could go outside. He was desperate to feel the air on his skin, desperate to be free of these invisible chains. He’d spent his whole life trapped inside himself. He wanted release.

Would he be like this forever, he wondered? Hiding away, fleeing. Alone.

He just wanted to live. He just wanted to exist. The world wouldn’t even give him that, though, would it? Monsters didn’t deserve that. They didn’t deserve freedom, or peace, or love.

No. He couldn’t go with Christine and he didn’t deserve to. He could shed as many tears over it as he wanted; his life would never change. Erik would never experience how it felt to be really, truly human.

She only stayed for a few days, which didn’t surprise him. She had a whole life to get back to, a happy life. His very existence threatened and distorted that, twisting and twisting and twisting. Christine deserved to be happy. She deserved light laughter and rays of sunshine. She deserved to be loved in the proper way, not this bizarre perversion of love.

So when she did finally seek him out the day she was due to leave, Erik refused to let her come too close.

She didn’t knock. She just opened the cellar door and walked down into the depths of this fresh wave of torture, wading through the unhappy air to reach him. She was fully dressed this time, her cloak tied tightly around her, her gloves and bonnet securely in place. She was about to leave him forever, and he had to let her. It didn’t change the fact that it hurt, but what did it matter? Everything hurt. There was no kindness left in this world - not for him. Erik lived because the demons of Hell wouldn’t let him die. His eternal punishment was this world, and all who walked the earth.

And Christine? Christine was the worst punishment of all.

She stood before him, holding her hands together as if in prayer, and gazed up at him with starry eyes.

“Did you consider it?” she asked him. There was no _Good morning_ , no _How do you do?_ There was no place for small talk between them.

“Yes,” he said stiffly.

He couldn’t quite meet her eyes. He stared at the space behind her shoulder instead, eyes burning a hole through the dark, damp wall.

“And?” she prompted.

He took a deep breath. He’d thought over this a million times since she last saw him. He’d planned out what he was going to say, planned out exactly how he would say it. But all of it was forgotten now, lost in a moment of dread and ice cold fear.

“And I uphold my previous answer,” he said awkwardly. “I’m sorry, Christine. But it is best for you if you return home alone.”

Even without directly looking at her, he could see her crestfallen face as she stared at him. 

“Oh,” she breathed.

 _I’m sorry_ , he wanted to say. _I’m so sorry. I would walk through flames for you. I would kill a thousand men. But it isn’t right._

He had to be rational. He had to.

“I see,” she said, and her voice was so small, it hurt just to listen. He wished he could close his ears in the same way he could close his eyes. But even if he could, he wouldn’t. He forced himself to listen. He forced himself to hear. “And you’re…you’re certain.”

“Yes,” he murmured. “I am certain.”

He looked at her now, struggling to keep himself calm. 

_Look at what you’ve done. You’ve caused her more pain. Is that what you call love, you vile creature?_

“I don’t think I can do it,” Christine said abruptly. “I don’t think I can deal with everything without you.”

“You can,” he said softly. “You’ve already been doing it.”

“I haven’t,” she argued. “Even in Rouen, the only way I can cope is by imagining how you would respond to everything. What you’d say, what you’d do, what you’d tell me. And I came to Paris for you and you don’t even want me. That isn’t…it isn’t…”

She trailed off into silence, wrapping her arms around herself as if to protect herself from him. 

He looked away, his whole body tensing in guilt and self-loathing. He’d done this to her. He’d upset her. And he was continuing to do so just to protect himself, as if he was anywhere near as important as she was.

 _No_.

He was trying to protect her. He was bad for her. She had to know that. By keeping them apart, he was doing them both a favour.

Then why did she stare at him so accusingly?

“There are people watching you,” Christine said.

“I know,” he said.

“Everyone wants you dead.”

“Yes.”

“You would be safer in Rouen,” she argued. “You would be safer…” _With me_ hung in the air between them, unsaid but heard.

He just looked at her. “I considered it. The answer is still no.”

He said it gently, but it was clear there was no room for debate. Christine stared back at him with eyes that glistened, but she didn’t cry, and she didn’t say anything more to try and get him to change his mind. Instead she said, so quietly he wouldn’t have heard if he hadn’t been listening so intently:

“I’m leaving in a moment. Raoul has come for me.”

He swallowed. The mere mention of his competition - _no, competition no longer_ \- made him clench his fists. But it no longer mattered. Nothing did.

“Then I hope your journey is safe,” he said rather awkwardly.

She nodded. “Thank you.” Her voice cracked on the _you_ , and now her eyes welled up with tears. He made no move to comfort her, despite the great agony it caused him to see her like that. _Discipline. Restraint. Pain_. They made up his cage. He wouldn’t break that cage. Not now.

“Erik?” she said.

He inclined his head. He couldn’t quite bring himself to speak.

“May I…I mean, would it be all right…I want to say goodbye properly.”

He frowned. What did she mean by that? Did she want him to sing her a farewell? Walk her to the cellar door like a footman escorting a lady? 

Then she raised her arms and he understood.

He didn’t move when she approached him. Didn’t raise his own arms, didn’t step away or step forward or do anything to invite or deny her. He just stood there, and if he flinched when she wrapped her arms around him in an overly familiar embrace, she didn’t comment. She held onto him for what felt like forever, and after a few moments, he forced himself to return her embrace. Gingerly, as if scared of touching her.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. If she stabbed him in the back now, he truly thought he’d let her. He wanted to get down on his knees and offer himself to her. He wanted to tell her just how deeply his love for her ran, wanted to tell her that it was more a part of him than his own blood. He wanted to give her his heart, mind and soul.

Instead, he just stood there, hoping beyond hope that this moment would never end.

But it had to. Because he’d said _No_.

She released him, leaned up, and kissed him on the cheek before fully withdrawing. He felt completely frozen, dumbstruck as he gazed at her.

“Take care of yourself, my Angel of Music,” she murmured.

And before he could say anything, she was already turning around and climbing the steps.

She didn’t turn to look at him. She didn’t say anything more. But he could hear her sniffling even once she’d closed the door behind her.

He felt like he was stuck in a trance. The whole world fell around him and he did nothing, just stood there, still as a statue and cold as ice. By the time he came back to himself, he wasn’t even sure how much time had passed. It could have been seconds, minutes, weeks. He felt like something was going wrong deep within him, as though a snake had slithered into his body and was now writhing and wriggling inside. Was he going to vomit? Nausea possessed him like a demon, breathing its poisonous breath into his gut.

It came over him so suddenly, it was almost paralyzing. 

He didn’t want her to go.

He had spent so long trying to let go, had thought over how he would tell her, had finally become decisive for once, and for what? He’d just let her go again. Again! She was saying goodbye to an angel, but she was his angel. What had he been thinking? What had he been doing, letting her go like that?

Before he was aware of what he was doing, he was rushing upstairs, no longer caring about any of the consequences, flinging open the cellar door and staring around him.

Madame Giry and Meg stood near the door. Meg was crying. Madame Giry was as unreadable as ever, though she stood with her arms around her daughter, gently stroking her hair. When they heard the cellar door, mother and daughter turned around to face him.

And from the looks on their faces, he knew.

She was already gone. There was no turning back. He’d tricked her into coming here and then he’d rejected her, and now she was gone for good.

“Monsieur…” Meg began.

“Don’t,” he cut her off. “Just be silent. I don’t want to hear it.”

She flinched at the harshness of his tone, and he didn’t really blame her. She’d grown accustomed to his gentler side, his softer side. He was kind to her because she had helped him and he owed her mother everything. But a man couldn’t just change overnight. The Phantom still stalked the halls of his mind.

“I’ll be downstairs,” he said, which was becoming something of a mantra.

Before Madame Giry could scold him for talking to his daughter in such a way, he was gone. Anything either of them called after him, he didn’t hear. 

He threw himself before his piano and played and played and played. The noise was a punishment, and he would spend the rest of his life forcing himself to listen.

~

Hours passed before he finally stopped. He half-collapsed at the piano, breathing so heavily it would be embarrassing if anyone saw. And then, once he’d sucked in enough air to keep himself alive, he stood up, grabbed his cloak and hat, and stalked upstairs. He didn’t care if anyone saw him. He didn’t care about anything. He was full of a strange, overwhelming feeling - a mix, he thought, of unadulterated agony and pure, white hot rage. He wasn’t even sure who he was angry at. Himself? Christine? Madame Giry? Meg? Raoul? There were so many who had wronged him, him most of all. He hated them all. He despised them, loathed them to the core.

Christine should have understood. She should have realised that of course he didn’t want her to go, of course he wanted to go with her, of course he still wanted her after all this time. He would die wanting her. He would die of love for her. She should have seen that. She should have _known_ , damn it!

But she had. She had known. She’d begged him to listen and he hadn’t. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her fault at all.

Then whose was it? Who could he blame this time?

_There’s only you, Erik. It’s always only you._

No. He wouldn’t accept that.

He left the house, and if he slammed the door a little harder upon exiting, he definitely didn’t do so on purpose.

It was the evening, and the night was stirring, welcoming him with open arms that he gladly fell into. He kept his head down and stuck to the shadows, grateful of his knowledge of all the dark places in the city.

He wasn’t even sure where he was going. He just needed to be outside. He needed the night air to whisper to him, needed the gentle evening winds to sing their song of comfort and safety. There was danger in the outside, what with all of Paris on their guard, primed to kill. But there was safety in darkness. Safety in the evening, in the night. And there always had been for him. He was made for darkness, he thought. He was made to hide, an insect crawling under a rock to hide from a child’s poking fingers.

But he was sick of hiding. 

He was tired.

He didn’t go to the opera house this time. It would only drive the stake home, making him more and more miserable. Instead, he just walked through the streets of Paris, focusing on his breathing, trying to calm himself down. 

There weren’t as many people as he’d expected, but that suited him just fine. Part of him wondered whether it was worth handing himself in. Madame Giry could stop worrying about getting caught and his life would end. And now that Christine was definitely gone, perhaps that would be a blessing. He didn’t have much left now, did he? He’d asked her to come to Paris in the hopes of seeing her safe and finding closure. And he’d got that closure. Why, then, did that closure take him backwards?

He felt just as miserable as he had done before, maybe even worse.

_No, not worse._

He could never be that bad again. In those first weeks, when the Girys had first found him, he had been a complete and utter shell of a human. He couldn’t function. And he barely even remembered it, his spirit had been so detached from his body. He wasn’t as bad as he had once been. But in a way, the clarity was somehow worse. Because now that he was lucid and awake and truly, truly alive, he had the ability to consciously think about how much he hated everything and everyone. He had the ability to consciously ponder whether he had a reason for living or not.

Moping. Would he ever be able to stop? The only time he’d been released from the confines of his own mind, he had been unable to even eat without help. A part of him relished that old version of himself those months ago. At least he hadn’t been able to think. 

He sighed to himself. He’d reached a part of Paris he didn’t even recognise - how long had he been walking for? He looked around him. The buildings were a little shorter here, and there were even less people than there had been in the back-end streets nearer to Madame Giry’s home. The sky was far darker than it had been when he’d first started his walk, and there were far few lights illuminating the way. 

The sound of giggling made him quickly leap into a shadowy corner, but it was just a woman laughing at something her male companion was saying.

 _Ridiculous_ , Erik thought as they passed him. He could probably pounce at them and they wouldn’t even blink an eye.

Then again, most people didn’t have to be on their guard worrying about being murdered. He supposed he couldn’t really blame them for dropping their guard, for getting distracted. He would, too. 

He sighed again. If only. If _only_. He felt so foolish for letting her go again. His anger had disappeared, bit by bit, ebbing away. With every step he took further away from the house, he gained a little more clarity. And although that clarity made him so miserable he wanted to catch a cab to the River Seine and throw himself in it, it also reminded him of why he’d let her go in the first place. It was better this way. Not just for him; for her, too. It was better for the both of them that they stay away from each other. It was better for Christine that she was married and happy. It was better for Erik that he was alone.

Still, he thought as the couple disappeared into the night, he couldn’t help feeling that tinge of frustration and regret. He missed her again. God help him, he still missed her. And that was why he had to let her go.

As he continued to go on his way, he wondered what he would have done if she hadn’t left when she had. Would he have stopped her? Taken her to the cellar and locked the door so she could never leave again? No one knew Erik but Erik, but even Erik found himself unpredictable. The truth was, he didn’t know. And that was what frightened him. She confused him. He needed her and she confused him and he hated it.

But he didn’t hate _her_. Never her.

Despite his certainty that this was for the best, he wished he could have just one more conversation with her. He just wanted her to be happy. He wanted it more than anything in the world. And for a long time, he’d been desperate for that happiness to be his. He had thought love was somehow, in some twisted way, a form of ownership. He would be the reason for her happiness. She was the reason for his; surely that was how it was supposed to be?

But realising…that hurt more than anything else. Realising that he didn’t want to control her happiness; he wanted her to choose it, wanted her to find it herself. And she had. In Raoul. And that was hard, but that was how it was.

He just wanted her to be happy.

That was why it was so much harder to say goodbye. Because he knew, deep down, beneath all the insecurity and terror, that she wasn’t _entirely_ happy. It had been easy to accept that she would leave to find her own happiness in Raoul. It was harder to accept her leaving this time, when he knew she’d sought it and evidently come up empty.

A part of him, that horrible, beastly part, wondered whether it was because he really could provide her with happiness. Perhaps he really did make her happy. Was it so far-fetched? Was it so ridiculous to believe he could inspire her to smile, to laugh, to _feel_?

He stared up at the sky, not even watching where he walked, no longer caring if he tripped and fell like a fool. It was a beautiful colour. Absolutely breathtaking.

When she’d first left, the colours had all been sucked out of the world, abandoning him, as everyone inevitably did, to the darkness.

He’d seen her again and it had hurt, but it hadn’t broken him. The colours were still here. And now, with her voice in his mind and the memory of her arms around him, he could appreciate them. He felt a little warmer. Among everything else, among all the pain and horror and trauma and horrible, aching longing, he felt warmer.

It would go away. She’d gone, and in a few hours’ time, he would be reminded of her absence. The world loved to break him, and without her, he was too tired to fight it.

He was midway through this thought when he heard footsteps coming from behind him. 

He stopped in a shadowy part of the streets, just as he’d done before when the couple had passed him by.

But this time, something was different. Because as soon as he stopped, so, too, did the footsteps.

He frowned. _What?_

He began to walk again, and so did the person behind him. He stopped again. His copycat also stopped. He tried this a few more times, and when it continued to happen, he knew.

Erik was being followed.

It wasn’t so surprising. He had been careful, but Madame Giry was still right; any time he left the house, he was putting himself at risk. There were people waiting for him to slip up and reveal himself. And one of them was right behind him now, finally having caught him.

But not really. These foolish people demanding his head on a stick obviously weren’t completely sure of who they were dealing with. Erik didn’t like himself, and he didn’t think he deserved to live, but he certainly wasn’t going to die because of some sort of perverted misinterpretation of justice.

None of this was justice. The people of Paris wanted to see him die because it would be entertaining. That was all. His story was one of wonder and amazement. The ballet rats would tell each other ghost stories about all the terrible things he had done. It was all sensationalism; he wasn’t so foolish that he’d genuinely believe any of these people cared about justice. Who cared about Joseph Buquet? Who cared about Piangi? No one. No one at all.

So who was this idiot following him, and did they have a death sentence?

He pretended not to notice. Continued walking through the streets, listening closely to the familiar sound coming from behind him. He continued to walk until he spotted an alleyway. It would be the perfect place to confront this fool without passers-by seeing.

He turned around the corner. Then, and only then, did he turn around…

…only to find no one there.

Erik frowned. _What_? His ears cannot have deceived him. He had excellent hearing, and he knew he wasn’t mistaken.

So where had they gone, this mysterious stalker? And what game were they trying to play?

Were they hiding from him? Perhaps they really were aware of the threat he posed after all. Not as stupid as he’d first thought, then.

Still, he really wasn’t in the mood for this.

“Good evening,” he said casually. “Where are you hiding, hmm?”

There was no answer.

“I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a disadvantage, _petite souris_. I’m not in the mood for games. Any other night, of course, I would be more than willing, but tonight I just don’t have the patience to play.”

There was still no answer.

“Come now,” he purred. “If you have even an inkling about who I may be, you know I will find you. Come out and face me, _petite souris_.”

There; the sound of scuffling, as if someone was fidgeting in their hiding spot. Erik narrowed his eyes. The sound had come from ahead of him, just around the corner that led back onto the main street. He tilted his head, watching intently, waiting to see another sign of movement. 

There was none. Whoever had moved clearly knew he’d seen.

He continued to watch, staying very still. It wouldn’t do to alarm his stalker.

The silence was deafening around them. It swooped down, bestowing kisses on predator and prey. It took no sides. It simply watched impassively, hanging in the air, one with the wind.

“Are you afraid?” Erik said, making sure his voice carried despite how softly he spoke. “Fear is wise.”

He had hoped to goad whoever hid from him into revealing themselves, but to no avail. There was no movement, no sound. Just the wind and that thick, pressing silence.

Then someone grabbed him from behind.

Strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him backwards. Erik was so surprised that he lost his footing, falling back into his attacker, giving them all the leverage they needed to continue pulling. He struggled to find purchase, planting his feet on the floor and writhing like the serpent he was.

His assailant grunted, releasing him. It was so abrupt that anyone else would have fallen over, but not Erik. He balanced himself, spinning around to face his attacker.

A man. Medium build. His hat had fallen off during the struggle, but he was dressed as any gentleman - Erik wouldn’t have looked twice if he’d passed him on the street. But his eyes. They were the coldest eyes Erik had ever seen.

Before Erik had a chance to ask who this man was, the assailant attacked again. He threw himself at Erik with a grunt, snatching at the lapels of his jacket and pushing so that both of them fell.

He was heavy, that was for damned sure. Gasping and winded, Erik pushed against him, but it was really no use; the man was a deadweight against him.

The man removed his hands from Erik’s shoulders. It took Erik all of two seconds to realise he was trying to remove the mask.

Erik spat at him. It had the desired effect: the man let out a gasp of disgust, and Erik took the opportunity to grab him and push. He rolled out from underneath him, grabbed the man, and crushed him against the wall before he even had a chance to react. He slammed one arm across the man’s bare throat, using his other hand to slam the man’s hand against the wall beside his head.

He surveyed him, breathing heavily from the exertion.

The way he glared so defiantly told Erik all he needed to know: he was pushy, he wanted something, and he was going to put up a fight to get it.

“You’ve been following me,” Erik said, remarkably calm given the circumstances. “Why?”

The man choked. His face was turning a deep red colour. His eyes weren’t quite bulging, but they looked slightly larger on his face. “Loo - _kah_ \- Look -”

Erik loosened his grip just enough to let him talk.

“Go on,” Erik said, shaking him slightly. “Talk.”

“Looking for you,” the man wheezed. “Long…long time… _ah_ -”

“Who are you?”

And the man, amazingly, _smiled_. As if this was a joke. As if Erik wasn’t capable of choking him to death where he stood.

“Does this amuse you?” Erik snapped.

“Very much,” the man said.

Erik applied the pressure again, this time tenfold. He squeezed until the man couldn’t even gasp; he just stood there, sputtering, his free hand clawing desperately at Erik’s arm.

Erik leaned in closer.

“Does it amuse you now?” he asked. “Hmm? Answer me.”

The man just stared at him, bug-eyed, writhing and kicking.

“No? I didn’t think so,” Erik said silkily.

He loosened his grip again, watching impassively as the man gasped for breath.

“Now tell me who you are,” Erik demanded.

“No,” said the man. “Do you think I’d be that stupid?”

“You are clearly stupid enough to risk an encounter with me,” Erik retorted. “Answer the question.”

“Or what? You’ll kill me? You’ll never find out who I am or what I want.”

“It is astoundingly bold of you to presume I care enough.”

“If you kill me,” the man warned, still breathing heavily, “then my colleagues will kill Christine Daaé.” 

That made him hesitate. 

Christine. What did this man know of Christine? 

Nothing. He was just using the rumours to save his life, was he not? Everyone had heard those rumours; the Phantom had snatched Christine Daaé during her final performance and run off with her to his lair. It was easy enough to put two and two together. In some twist of fate, the Phantom cared about the Daaé girl. This man had probably heard of this and would now say anything he could to save his life.

But what if it was true? What if he did have someone watching Christine? It would explain the letters, explain everything. Christine had told him _There are people watching you_. Was this who she meant? 

But if this man was after Christine, why would he be in Paris?

“That got your attention, didn’t it?” the man sneered, and Erik had half a mind to kill him just for that.

“If you so much as look at Christine Daaé, I will kill you _and_ your colleagues and I will take great pleasure in doing so,” he growled.

“So it’s true, then,” the man said. “The corpse and his living bride. Or not. Did it hurt, watching her marry someone else?”

Who _was_ this man?

“What do you want?” Erik demanded, desperately trying to ignore the urge to kill this man here and now. It wouldn’t be difficult.

“What do you think we want?” the man snapped in reply. “We want your head.”

Erik’s arm tightened against the man’s throat.

“And -” the man wheezed. “We want - _her_ head - too - shit -”

Tighter.

“Why?” Erik hissed. “She’s innocent!”

“Nothing - _gah_ \- innocent about - about her -”

Even tighter. 

“She’s done nothing to you. Nothing! I let her go to live her life and still she suffers for my sins! My crimes! If you want my head, take it, but hers? You’ll die for it. You’ll all die for it. Every -” _tighter_ , “-single -” _tighter_ , “- _one of you_!”

Someone shouted, “ _Erik_!”

The voice was so familiar that he whipped his head around to see who had called him.

And standing there, looking absolutely horrified, was Meg Giry.

Erik stared. “And just _what_ are you doing here?”

“What do you think _you’re_ doing!” Meg cried. “Have you really lost your mind?!”

In his surprise, Erik lessened his grip. And the man, gasping and sputtering, took the opportunity. He pushed against Erik, and Erik, distracted by the sight of Meg, didn’t have time to push back. Before he could even react, the man was sprinting away from them all, not even glancing back to see if Erik was following.

Erik went to give chase, but Meg stood in front of him, hands out in front of her as if trying to calm a bucking horse.

“Let him go,” she said quickly. “Just let him.”

“He’s going after Christine,” he snapped.

All he saw was red. He tried to push past her. She shouted, “No!” and to his absolute amazement, she hit him. Actually _hit_ him. Hard, right in the chest.

“Did you just hit me?” he gasped.

She looked more surprised than he was. “I…I did.”

If the circumstances weren’t so dire, he’d probably be fairly impressed. Meg Giry, who had been absolutely terrified of him for the majority of the time he’d known her, had just hit him. And even then, she’d hit him whilst very aware of his murderous rage.

It seemed she, too, had a habit of getting in between the Phantom and his would-be victims. Christine would be proud.

Maybe they'd never find out what Christine thought. Maybe she'd be dead by the morning.

 _Oh, God._ Dread, cold and cruel, squirmed inside him. Christine was in trouble. Whoever these people were, they planned on killing her at some point - killing them both. It was all his fault, wasn't it? Everything he'd done was coming back to haunt him. But not just him. Christine, too. Beautiful, perfect Christine.

He couldn't let her die. Letting her go was one thing; knowing she was dead and buried? The very idea made him want to scream. And he almost did. He would have, if not for Meg standing in front of him, in between him and the love of his life. Endangered. And God help her, she probably didn't even know what was coming.

“Get out of my way,” Erik said softly, dangerously.

But despite her shock at her own actions, Meg still didn’t move. “No,” she said. “I won’t let you kill that man.”

“He’s going after Christine! He’s going to kill her!”

“And I’ll kill you if you don’t stay still!” Meg snarled.

He blinked. First she’d hit him, now she was giving him death threats. Had she somehow lost her mind and forgotten who he was?

It surprised him enough to stop him. He stilled, taking deep breaths as if it was him, not that man, who had been strangled half-to-death.

He backed away, narrowing his eyes. It was such an odd sight, he was half-convinced he was dreaming. Little Meg Giry, glaring up at him as if preparing to challenge him to a duel. It was so ridiculous he could have laughed. He almost did. He felt hysterical, beside himself, his mind spiralling out of control. He kept picturing her - Christine, beautiful Christine - dead. On the floor, her throat gushing blood, her voice dead and gone, her soul far from him. In a coffin, eyes closed, face pale, unnatural and still. Haunting his dreams, ghostly demon, pointing fingers, accusing. _Your fault. Your fault. Your fault._ No. No, he couldn't lose her. He didn't care what happened to him - he would gladly offer his life in exchange for hers. But Christine? Christine had so much ahead of her. Christine was everything. She couldn't die. She didn't deserve to die. Did he really deserve to lose her?

 _Focus, Erik._ Yes. Focus. He had to focus. His racing mind wasn't doing any good. He forced his eyes to see Meg Giry instead of Christine's body, forced himself to feel the air on him, forced himself to feel the fear instead of that horrible, cold loss.

“Would you care to explain what you’re doing here?” Erik asked. He struggled to keep his voice even, but it shook all the same. Christine was in trouble. Why didn’t Meg care more? Christine was her friend. That man was going to kill her. Surely that was reason enough to move out of his damned way?

“I heard you leave,” Meg said. “I knew you’d do something stupid. So I came after you.”

“It isn’t your place to tell me what I do is stupid,” Erik said. “Does your - does Madame Giry even know?”

“Obviously not,” Meg said, rolling her eyes. “But you were upset and we all know what you do when you’re upset, Monsieur Phantom.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Erik said. He didn’t have the space for it in his mind. “Christine is in trouble. Excuse me.”

He tried to push past her, but again, she stood in his way.

“You can’t possibly expect me to let you go killing that man,” Meg protested.

“I have no intention of killing him,” Erik said. He managed to keep his voice very calm, despite the absolute terror inside him, a living beast rearing its ugly head. And God, that fear was uglier than _him_. No. He couldn't let this happen, he couldn't, he couldn't - _Focus._

“I’m going to Rouen,” he said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Meg replied. “How do you expect to go to Rouen? You are a wanted man.”

She had a point. He couldn’t exactly call a cab, could he? Anyone around Paris would recognise him immediately, and then he’d be arrested. Usually this wouldn’t pose as much of a problem - he was far away from Madame Giry’s house, so she could hardly be implicated - but now? Now Christine’s life rested on him surviving. Whoever that man was, he clearly had ill intentions towards her, and Raoul de Chagny would hardly pose much of a threat. Christine was in danger, and Erik could protect her. He just had to get to her first. Warn her, perhaps.

“I need to get to Rouen,” Erik argued. “They could kill her. You don’t understand. He said - he _said_ he wanted her head. There are people in Paris, his colleagues, he said. They're going to hurt her."

He tried to make his face as open and imploring as possible when wearing a mask, but it was very difficult. He half-wanted to shake her roughly, to _make_ her understand, but despite his fear, he managed to restrain himself just enough to retain some clarity.

Meg bit her lip. “But why? She hasn’t done anything.”

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” he said. “She’s in trouble. That should be enough. Now get out of my way or so help me!”

She just stared back at him defiantly. Her eyes posed a challenge, her face practically glowing with defiance. It was clear she wasn’t afraid of him anymore, and she certainly wasn’t going to move any time soon.

But then a new emotion passed over her face, mirroring his own feelings of clarity. She'd made a decision.

He just stood there, clenching his fists, glowering.

And then she spoke.

“If Christine is in trouble, we should go to her,” she said. “Letters aren’t going to get to her soon enough to warn her.”

“We?” Erik repeated. “No. I’m going. You’re staying here.”

“No,” Meg said simply. “Christine is my friend. If she really does need help, then I’m coming, too. We started this together. You can’t just cut me out now. And besides, how do you expect to get a carriage? It will be far easier to leave Rouen with me.”

She had a point.

He decided he hated her.

“Your mother will be furious,” he protested.

Meg shrugged, crossing her arms in a way that would make said mother faint, it was so unladylike. “I don’t care.”

He searched her eyes for any sign of indecision and found none at all. She stuck out her chin, her eyes glinting, daring him to challenge her.

So he didn’t.

“Very well,” he said. It _would_ probably be easier with her, after all. He could have her watching from inside the house under the pretence of making a normal house call. “We go to Christine. We go now.”

He turned and began walking away, not even waiting to see whether Meg would follow; he knew she would.

But she didn’t. She called, “Erik, wait.”

He huffed, turning to glare at her. “What now?”

“We cannot possibly leave _now_ , it’s too late. We’ll have to go in the morning.”

He hated it, but she did make sense. Again.

It would be better to go in the morning. That way, they would have time to make preparations. Pack some clothes, another mask, some rope with which to strangle any man who dared try to hurt Christine, another cloak.

He sighed. “Fine. Fine! But we are going tomorrow. No later than that. We go as soon as we possibly can."

“It's all right," she said gently. "She'll be all right. But we both need to calm down first."

He believed she believed it, but he wasn't so sure. Christine was important to both of them, after all. And she _was_ right. Perhaps it would do him some good to have some time to think, to gather his mental resources to try and work out how he would go about this. He couldn’t exactly stroll into the de Chagny estate. He genuinely thought Raoul would kill him, and he didn’t have the time.

He would save Christine. It was the only thing that mattered now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the plot! Lots of drama in this one. Hopefully Erik isn't too OOC here...  
> Will everything in Rouen be as dramatic and drastic as Erik thinks or is he just a drama queen? We shall see.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and as always, let me know what you think <33


	13. Chapter Thirteen: Act IV, Scene 5

Christine didn’t join Raoul for dinner. Instead, she informed him quietly that she wasn’t hungry and would rather just go straight to bed.

It made him peer at her, his light eyes dark with concern.

“Are you feeling quite well?” he asked her.

“Of course,” she said.

“You were quiet for the entire journey home,” he observed, “and now you’re going to bed early. Did something happen with Madame Giry?”

That was the annoying thing about Raoul. He loved her, he cared about her, and unfortunately, he had good intuition. He knew something was wrong. He’d known from the very beginning. It wasn’t his fault, none of it was his fault, but she would never be able to tell him _what_ , exactly was wrong. If only she could. Perhaps it would be easier to forget Erik, to forget that she’d ever had an Angel of Music, if her husband was just a little more understanding. But despite his kindness, despite the way he looked at her like he wanted to give her the sun in a little gift-wrapped box, he wouldn’t take kindly to hearing the true motive for her sadness.

“No,” Christine said honestly. Nothing had happened with Madame Giry. It was what had happened in her _home_ that was the issue. “We had a long journey. I’m just…”

She waved a hand, hoping he’d fill in the blanks.

He didn’t.

“You know, Christine, I was hoping we could spend a bit of time together this evening,” he said, and he was staring at her with such imploring, hurt eyes that she had to look at something else to stop her stomach churning with guilt. “I’ve been busy and I just thought…”

“I’m just tired,” she said softly.

He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. He looked so tired, so much older than he had done just moments ago. She supposed he’d been looking forward to this evening. They’d be home, they’d get to dine together and talk and enjoy each other’s company.

But how was she supposed to do that now? Seeing Erik had completely ruined everything. She could no longer put on her marriage-mask. She didn’t want Raoul; she feared the marriage-bed. She just wanted to curl up and forget the world, forget everything that had happened in Paris.

She felt changed by it. Confused by it. 

“Is there something I can do?” Raoul asked finally. “Are you ill? You look dreadfully pale.”

“I’m not ill.”

“Perhaps you could do with a doctor coming to see you.” His face briefly lit up. “Perhaps you’re with child?”

The very idea made her feel sick. She was worried she would throw up, and had to cover her mouth with her hand until the dizzy sickness passed.

She had done this to herself. She had ruined everything, hadn't she, by going to Paris? She'd sabotaged her own marriage.

What had she done? What had she _done_? She’d allowed him back into her head. She’d put up those walls, left with Raoul, started a brand new life with him. And then she’d gone back, and now Erik’s presence seemed to pulsate within her, a putrid poison staining her blackening heart.

Marriage meant respect. Marriage meant fulfilling her husband’s desires. Marriage meant giving him children, as many as he desired, and never turning him away.

She’d known all of this when she’d married him.

And now the very idea of being married to him, of having his children, of being his _wife_ , made her nauseous. 

_Come back to me _, she found herself thinking, desperately, her heart breaking. _Tell me I’m being foolish. Tell me what to do. Return to me, release me, never let me go.___

____

____

“Christine?” Raoul said now, his voice laced with concern. He’d approached her, she realised, and now held her by her upper arms. Her vision was full of him, all bright eyes and prettiness. No matter where she looked, no matter how desperately her eyes tried to escape him, she couldn’t. He was too close, and she felt like a caged animal being jeered at in a circus.

“Christine?” Raoul said again. He placed a hand on her forehead and she flinched at the touch. “Good God, woman, you’re cold as ice! Gabin!” He was shouting to one of the servants, and his voice was too loud. It was deafening. Her ears hurt, her eyes hurt; God, why was he standing so close to her? “Call for a physician immediately.”

No, no, no. She didn’t want a physician. She didn’t want them to poke and prod at her, to judge her, to see the truth behind her strange condition.

Her pappa, delirious.

_Get off him! He doesn’t want you! Oh, pappa, pappa…_

Her, tiny little Christine, trying to fight off doctors who wanted to do her father harm. She couldn’t remember her French - she’d tried so hard, but it was so difficult to learn even after all these years here. In her panic, she babbled in Swedish, gasping at them to leave him alone, leave him alone, there’s nothing wrong with him!

“I don’t care how late it is!” Raoul’s voice broke into her thoughts. She really thought he was the only thing keeping her from collapsing. “Go! Now!”

“No,” Christine moaned, hopelessly clinging to clarity. “I don’t want a doctor. Please, Raoul, I don’t want a doctor, I’m fine, it’s just - I need - I just need to rest. That’s all.”

“Christine,” Raoul said dubiously.

“I’m _fine_ , Raoul,” she snapped. 

And to both his amazement and hers, she gently pushed him away.

It was difficult to stand. Her head was swimming; she felt so dizzy, the whole room seemed to spin. But it didn’t matter.

Despite the dizziness, and despite Raoul’s continued insistence that she see a doctor, she managed to pull herself up the stairs and half-collapse on her bed. 

Only to feel something sharp and cold tearing into her skin.

Christine gasped from the unexpected pain, sitting up so that she was sitting back on her calves. And when she saw what had pricked her skin, the pain was immediately forgotten, the nausea returning tenfold. 

On her bed lay a dead red rose, covered in cruel little thorns. Sitting right beside it was a now-crumpled piece of parchment. In red ink and an elegant, unfamiliar script, someone had written:

_Death lies on her, like an untimely frost_

_Upon the sweetest flower of all the field._

_Act IV, Scene 5._

The meaning was clear. It was a threat. Somebody had sneaked into her room whilst she was in Paris. Somebody had planted this here for her to find. And somebody had made sure she knew the danger she was in.

Christine opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. She just sat there, eyes so wide they strained.

And when she finally could make a sound, it wasn’t a scream that left her lips. It was a tiny, frightened whimper.

~

She didn’t tell Raoul about the note and rose. Instead, she told Maria to dispose of the rose that very evening, and she shoved the note into the pocket of one of her cloaks, hiding it from all eyes - including her own. When she went to breakfast with Raoul the next day, she didn’t say a thing about it. She acted like nothing had happened the previous day, smiling and laughing and pretending everything was fine between them. He kept looking at her as though expecting her to suddenly get ill again, but she didn’t, and eventually, he calmed down and went about the business of the day, leaving her to her own devices. 

For most of the day, she kept herself busy, desperate to escape thoughts of the rose and note. She sat in the music room and concentrated on the keys of her piano, plucked uselessly at the harp, sang to herself despite the pain it inevitably caused her. She tried to read, furious at herself when she couldn’t process any of the words. She tried to practice her sewing and stitching and ended up throwing it across the room in fury and frustration. 

She spent the entire day trying to think of anything but the threat. She spent the entire day failing.

Just thinking of it sent chills down her spine. What did it mean? Who had sent it? Why? 

She could guess at the answers. It meant someone wanted to kill her. It had probably been sent by the same man who had stopped her in the streets of Rouen. But why? She had no idea why. She hadn’t done anything wrong, hadn’t hurt anyone. Evidently, however, the sender of her twisted, depraved gift disagreed.

That evening, she went to the cathedral in Rouen, dragging Maria along with her so she wasn’t completely alone. 

It was a beautiful cathedral, the kind that her father would have loved. Absolutely enormous, it had the ability to make the most powerful man in the world feel small. Christine felt rather like an ant walking in, the arches huge giants from the Scandinavian folk tales her father used to tell her and Raoul. The slightest sound echoed, and the sounds of people moving about seemed to assault her ears.

Still. It was far quieter than her own head.

She told Maria to wait for her, and off Christine went. She sat in one of the pews, quiet and unassuming, and clasped her hands together in prayer.

She prayed for her father’s soul first, as she always did. Then she prayed for the health of her friends and husband. She prayed for Erik, as she’d taken to doing ever since she’d first left her Angel of Music in the opera house. For his soul. For his life. For his wellbeing. 

And then finally, she prayed for herself. She prayed for protection, prayed for love and understanding, prayed for safety. 

_Show me the way and I will follow. But please, please give me guidance._

It was easier to breathe here. She felt safer, as if she could really feel the arms of God cradling her, His silent word reassuring her. But it wasn’t really about that. 

Churches and cathedrals made Christine feel closer to her father. She could almost hear him telling her she was going to be all right. She could hear his laughter, light and free, could hear his lilting voice telling her all those stories, could hear the beautiful, humbling sound of his violin. 

She had so many precious memories of her father, but it would never be enough. She missed him. She missed him so dearly, it still hurt whenever she thought of him, whenever she remembered the twinkle in his eyes and his kindness. He had been such a patient, loving man, the best father anyone could ever ask for. It didn’t annoy him when she asked him to play with her; it didn’t irritate him when she asked him to tell her another tale, or play her another song, or tell her more about the Angel of Music. It was difficult for a man to raise a daughter without his wife, but Christine’s father had never once complained, had never once shouted at her for her impertinence or gotten stern with her. He loved her, and he showered her with this love. No other love would ever compare. He had been her everything. 

And then he’d been taken from her.

Her whole life, Christine had sought a return to her childhood. Even now, nearly one-and-twenty, she desperately yearned for those simpler days, when all that was expected of her was nothing. She wanted to sit before the fire again, leaning against her father’s legs, listening to him play and play and play. 

Christine’s childhood had seen many misfortunes. The death of her mother. Poverty. The way life had ripped them from their home. But in spite of this, her childhood had been a happy one because of her father. 

She wondered what he would say if he were here now. What would he tell her to do?

She sighed. 

He wouldn’t tell her to do anything. He was dead. 

And she was alone.

With a sigh, Christine unclasped her hands and stood up. She didn’t even glance behind her as she walked back over to Maria. She didn’t have it in her anymore. The cathedral, which had felt so warm, comforting and peaceful only moments ago, now felt cold and silent. There was no God here, no angels, no spirits. There was only cold stone and sweeping arches, and it all served as a mockery around her. The cathedral knew she was alone. Perhaps whoever had sent that gift did, too.

“Let’s go home,” Christine murmured to Maria, not even looking at her as she passed her by.

Maria followed her without a word. And for once, Christine was grateful for the silence that permeated the air.

The walk home was uneventful. Winter was beginning to breathe his cold air through France, and Christine made sure to hold her cloak as tightly around her as possible as they walked. Soon, it would be too cold to go walking. Or at the very least, it would be too cold to go walking without Raoul commenting about her health. And then she’d be confined to the house, just like Erik was in Paris. It was hard to believe that the two of them, so different in so many ways, could somehow be going through the same experiences. They both wore masks. He wore them for Madame Giry and Meg; she wore hers for Raoul. But hers was beginning to fray at the edges, and she so desperately wanted a reprieve.

Then again, maybe she didn’t. Maybe she’d just have to get used to this. Pretty gowns and dresses, over-complicated etiquette, a demure wife living a life of submission. Perhaps that was the best a woman could hope for. Perhaps, whilst yearning for understanding and connection, she was simply hoping for the things no woman would ever have. 

The opera house had allowed a certain level of shamelessness. It was difficult to forget that, to trade it for a life where smiling was looked down upon, where life was shallow and everyone played a game Christine didn’t yet understand the rules to. Perhaps the reason Christine was struggling wasn’t because of her Angel at all. 

Perhaps one day, she’d actually believe that.

He’d know what to do about the threat on her bed. He wouldn’t stop until he’d hunted the sender down, and then he’d kill them violently, using his blood to paint Christine’s name on the wall. The thought made her dizzy. How strange was it, that she was afraid of this threat of death, but her fear made her want to go running into the arms of a known killer. Perhaps there really was something wrong with her. Perhaps she was broken in some way, and her forgotten song was the first step God took to tear her to shreds.

 _You mustn’t think like this, Christine_ , she chastised herself. 

Such blasphemy could cost her immortal soul. God would abandon her if she continued to behave in such a way, continued to think like this. But even now, walking up the hill to her estate, she couldn’t help but think, _Let Him._

They reached the house at long last, and it was a good thing, too; the sky was getting dark. 

Christine silently allowed Maria to remove her cloak, declining a bath in a quiet, unassuming voice. She sent her away, staring up at the tall ceiling of the entrance hall, and called instead for Gabin. He appeared only moments later, hands behind his back and head bowed demurely.

“Madame?”

“Where is the Vicomte, please?” she asked.

“In his study, Madame. Should I go and inform him you are home?”

“No,” she said, waving her gloves in her hand dismissively. “I will go myself. Thank you; that will be all.”

He bowed, turned, left, and Christine wondered whether she looked that mechanical. Did she look like she was made of clockwork, too? 

Silently, her mind far away, she ascended the staircase, turned around the corner, and headed towards Raoul’s study. She was going to be a good wife to him from now on. She would forget her past, she would forget Erik. She would tell Raoul about the note and rose and he would tell the police and they would be safe again. She wouldn’t hide things from him anymore; she wouldn’t commit cold adultery in the safety of her mind. She’d commit herself to him, as she’d promised to do on her wedding day, and she would accept that this was as good as it got for a woman like her. She would count her blessings and she would be good to him now.

But perhaps God really _was_ condemning her. Because just as she was approaching the large, heavy door of Raoul’s study, she felt arms slide around her from behind. She would have screamed, but there was a strong hand clamped down over her mouth. She would have struggled, but her assailant’s other arm was too tight around her, completely restraining her.

A voice poured into her ear, liquid gold:

“Don’t scream. I don’t want that foolish boy to know I’m here - you understand, Christine.”

She’d know that voice anywhere. She immediately stopped struggling, instead twisting around so that she could catch a glimpse of his mask.

And sure enough, it was him.

Erik was in her house.

He released her, and she spun around to face him properly. 

How could it be? How was he here? Her whole body seemed to burst into flames as she stared at him, eyes wide and heart pounding in her chest. 

She opened her mouth to speak, but immediately, he pressed his hand against her again.

“Not here. He’ll hear you,” he reasoned, perhaps seeing the flash of defiance in her eyes. “Come.”

He let go of her mouth just so he could grab her wrist, perhaps forgetting his usual civility, and pulled her away into one of the other rooms. He ended up pulling her into the library. It was a small thing, rather humble considering the size of Raoul’s purse, but it was cosy. Sometimes, Christine would come and sit in here just to get away from things, and usually, nobody bothered her here. The oil lamps were already lit - how long had Erik been here, anyway? - and the room glowed a soft yellow-orange. The dim lighting made Erik seem less intimidating, somehow, and if Christine twisted just so, it looked almost as though his mask was part of his face. She could almost forget the dangers of him, the cruelty lying behind the mask. But not quite.

He shut the door behind them, and only then did he fully release her, standing back against the door. She wasn’t sure whether he was barring her from leaving or barring someone else from coming in. He stared at her, and his eyes burned with such an intense, strange fire Christine felt almost uncomfortable under his gaze. 

“What are you doing here?” she demanded at once. “Why are you here? _How_ are you here?”

“It’s a long story,” he answered, sighing softly. He seemed tired, she realised. His shoulders were tense, and the unmasked half of his face showed the telltale gaunt cheeks and dark circles. No, he wasn’t just tired. He was _exhausted_. And were those bruises along his cheekbone? 

“Are you all right, Christine? Tell me you’re all right.”

There it was again: the intensity. It was almost too much, and if she could, she would tear her eyes away. But she couldn’t.

“Christine?” he said, and now there was a tone of urgency in his voice.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine - what happened to your face?”

Those bruises, now that she’d noticed them, seemed even darker. It was strange to see a man so tall, so intimidating, so powerful, bruised. She felt a surge of protectiveness and had to clench her fists to stop herself from rushing towards him and trying to kiss the pain away.

“It is no matter,” Erik said easily. He sounded so unbothered by it. How many other bruises had found his skin in his lifetime? 

“It is,” she insisted. “What happened? Who did this?”

“A fool who should take care to watch his back from now on,” Erik said. He didn’t make it sound like a threat, just a fact. She couldn’t believe how nonchalant he sounded about it. “We had an altercation in Paris. As I said, it is no matter; what matters now is only you.”

He looked like he was going to ask something else, but before he could, she interrupted with a question of her own: “What are you doing here?”

He stared at her as if searching for something in her face. And then quietly, gently, as if half-afraid of saying it, he said, “I changed my mind.”

If her heartbeat had been fast a moment ago, it was racing now.

He’d changed his mind.

_He’d changed his mind._

He’d come all this way, sneaking out of Paris to come to Rouen to see her because he’d changed his mind. He was going to teach her again. She was getting it all back: she was getting the music back, the song, the love, _Erik, Erik, Erik_. All of her thoughts of submitting to the hollowness of her life disappeared, vanishing without a trace. There was only him, her Angel of Music, returned to her as though God really had heard her prayers in the cathedral. Her Angel had come back. Her Angel was only a few steps away from her, in the flesh, looking at her, tearing down every single wall she had put up against him. She wanted to collapse into a heap and cry. She wanted to grab him and never let go. She wanted - and God, she barely understood this wanting. It was consuming her like flames. Her yearning, answered. Her yearning, intensified. 

“You’ll teach me?” she asked, and somehow she managed to keep all of these feelings out of her voice.

“Yes,” he said immediately. 

But there was something strange in his eyes. A glint, a strange kind of glimmer, that told her he wasn’t being completely honest. 

Erik was an excellent liar. But Christine was beginning to learn how to undo those lies, unravelling them like silk on a wheel. Unravelling _him_.

“You’re not really here to teach me,” she accused. “Are you?”

He considered. She could see him working through a puzzle in her mind, fitting together jigsaw pieces and taking them back apart again.

Finally, he seemed to come to a conclusion.

“No,” he said, and she could tell he was being honest. 

“Then why are you here? What’s going on? How did you even get in?”

“Irrelevant,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “We are just making sure you’re safe.”

Her eyes widened. Safe? Did he somehow know about the strange message she’d received? No. If he knew, he’d ask her for it, or demand to know who’d sent it. He didn’t know. But something had made him come to Rouen, and if it wasn’t to teach her music again, she had a feeling something was very wrong. What did he know that she didn’t?

“Wait,” she said, frowning. “Did you say _we_?”

He nodded. “Meg is also here,” he admitted. “In fact, in a few minutes, she will be knocking on the front door. But I wanted to see you first. I wanted to explain, to make sure you are on your guard, to make sure you know I am here. I wanted you to understand.”

His eyes seemed so much larger in the light of the oil lamps. He looked like an insect imploring her not to kill it. 

The feelings from before came back, intensifying. She wanted to hold him. She wanted him to hold her. She wanted him to keep her safe; she wanted to protect him from the world. 

But she also wanted him to just tell her what was going on, and she told him this.

“How many people are in the house?” Erik asked instead of answering.

She frowned. “Well, there’s me - Raoul is in his study…”

“No,” Erik interrupted. “How many, exactly? How big is your staff?”

Her frown deepened. Whatever did he mean, asking her all these questions? 

“There’s my maidservant, Maria,” she began.

“I don’t care about their names,” he said. “I care about the number. How _many_ , Christine? This is very important.”

And she could tell by the way he stared at her that he really thought so.

She tried to count in her head. Maria, Louis, Gabin…there was the footman, the housemaids, the cook - the gardener had already gone home…

“Twelve,” she concluded. “Including the housemaids. I think.”

“No ‘I think’,” Erik said, so sternly she was reminded of their lessons when he had been her Angel. “You must be sure. Are you absolutely certain you have twelve?”

She chewed absently on her lip. “Yes,” she decided.

He seemed to relax, his tense shoulders loosening ever so slightly. He didn’t move away from the door, but he breathed an audible sigh of relief.

“Good,” he murmured, as if to himself. “That’s good. I counted twelve, also.”

She tried not to think about the connotations of _that_. Instead, she peered at him. “What is this about? What’s happening?”

A grim look came over him. She could practically feel his concerns, could feel how on guard he was. Something was definitely wrong, and she was beginning to think the reason why was similar to the note she had received.

“I have reason to believe someone is coming here with the intent on hurting you,” he confessed, and his voice was so quiet she had to strain to hear him. 

She must have looked pale or frightened because he added very quickly:

“But they won’t succeed, Christine. I swear on my life, I will do everything in my power to protect you. It’s why I’m here. I’m here to make sure you are safe and remain that way. Don’t be afraid.”

She had to tell him. It _had_ to be linked to the threat she’d received, it just had to be. She had to tell him so that he could do something.

She was chewing so hard on her lip now, the metallic taste of blood began to blossom in her mouth.

“Angel,” she murmured. “Erik. I think…I think that whoever wants to hurt me may have already come.”

He moved so fast, she didn’t even have time to be surprised when he suddenly appeared in front of her, grabbing her by the shoulders and staring into her face with wild, terrified eyes.

“Why do you say that? Christine? Why do you say that? Answer me.”

She just stared at him. A part of her, the immature, childish part who had stared all around her in search of the source of the Angel of Music’s beautiful voice, wanted to crumple in his arms and sob into his chest. But she was not a girl now; she was a woman. And he wasn’t the Angel of Music; he was just a man intent on keeping her safe. She stomped that childish part of her down, swallowed the lump that had already begun to form in her throat, and gently wrapped her hands around his wrists to calm him down.

She didn’t have time to tell him, however, because at that moment, there was a knock on the library door.

“Madame?” Gabin’s voice came through the wood. “There is someone here to see you. She said her name is Mademoiselle Giry.”

A mixture of fear for Erik and relief that Meg was here washed over her. She gazed up at Erik, whispering so that only he could hear: “Stay quiet.”

He frowned at the order, but he did as he was told and stayed quiet. She wondered whether she was the first person to ever tell him what to do and somehow get away with it.

“Could you tell her to wait in the entrance hall, Gabin?” Christine called back through the door. “I will be with her in just a moment. Could you tell her?”

“Of course, Madame,” said Gabin.

“And inform my husband, please,” Christine added.

“Yes, Madame.”

Only when she heard the sound of Gabin walking away did she allow herself to breathe.

“Christine,” Erik hissed, and his hands tightened on her shoulders. 

Somehow, she still managed to keep calm. “I don’t think they’re here anymore. But I think someone was in the house whilst I was away in Paris.”

“ _What_?” he hissed again. His hands grew even tighter. If he squeezed much harder, she was certain he was going to leave bruises. “How? How did they get in? What did they do - how do you know?”

“I will have to show you,” she said sensibly, practically. She couldn’t believe how she was managing to hold it together, but somehow, he seemed more panicked about the threat to her life than her. “But I will need to go and get something first. To show you. And I’ll bring Meg with me. Give me five minutes and I’ll return to you, and then we can discuss all of this together.”

His eyes flickered between both of hers. Searching. For reassurance, she supposed. For confidence.

He seemed to find both because he released her again. “Very well,” he resigned. “Five minutes. I will be counting.”

She smiled at him, grabbing his hand and squeezing gently. “Thank you,” she murmured, “for coming for me.”

He just looked at her. He didn’t need to say anything. She could see it all in those eyes, vulnerable eyes, eyes that had seen too much.

“Five minutes,” she assured him. “Start counting.”

And with that, she left the library, shutting the door firmly behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> etc., etc...


End file.
